


Red Desert Moonshine

by JadedTimberwolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deadlock are The Companions confirmed, Feral, Genji is still a little shit, Hallucinations, Hanzo has some spooky ass demons, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Obligatory Vegas trip, PTSD McCree, Roadtrip, annoyance at first sight, lots of alcohol jfc, pre-overwatch recall, werewolf!McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedTimberwolf/pseuds/JadedTimberwolf
Summary: Exile of the Shimada clan, Hanzo has found himself many odd jobs while on the run. Dealing with a coyote problem while passing through the American Southwest should be no different. But what does the obnoxious man in the cowboy hat have to do with it?(Werewolf McCree/pre-Overwatch recall AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First official fanfic in the Overwatch fandom! (and this account, lol)
> 
> Just a disclaimer: Hanzo has prosthetic legs in this story simply because I enjoy the headcanon. Some liberties about Jesse's past will be taken as well. Still, enjoy!

Hanzo had often found himself taking occasional odd jobs throughout his travels, but this one. This one was a first.

The task was certainly a problem that only the denizens of the wild American Southwest could have. The archer had heard tell of “one big brute of a coyote” from a few drunks at his last rest stop, holed up in the hills edging along the other side the valley. Apparently the beast had made a habit of sneaking down into the nearby communities to steal food, one time breaking the lock on a restaurant back door. The locals wanted it eliminated. 

A strange circumstance, but one simple enough. It promised enough pay to cover lodging for the rest of his way to Canada. Hanzo would have been a fool not to investigate further.

The orange evening sun was already mingling with the horizon by the time the archer had reached his destination. It was a dusty old town, hardly big enough to merit a spot on the map. As he made his way down the crack-littered sidewalk, Hanzo made note of the small businesses he passed: barber shop, general store, bar (he would visit that later), souvenir shop, bank, firearms dealer, and a 2-star motel with a single fuel pump at the end of the block. Almost like one of those “boom-towns” he had read about in his studies. 

He strode inside the final building and paid for his room. It was a dirty little hole in the wall, stained yellow bedsheets and a cockroach on his pillow instead of a mint. Hanzo placed the case housing Storm Bow by the nightstand and heaved his other duffel bag off of his shoulder onto the floor. As he began to unpack, he heard a sharp whistle behind him, feigning enthusiasm.

“Boy, this place sure is something else, eh brother?” Genji quipped. Hanzo ignored him as he continued to sort his belongings. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the form of his young sibling leap and land back against the room’s second bed, pale hands tucked playfully behind his green hair. “Sure makes you miss those rock-hard floor mats back home.”

“Hanamura is _not_ my home.”

Hanzo laid what he needed out before him and toed the duffel bag under the bed with his foot. Genji gave a chuckle, then his image blurred and shifted so that he was laying on his stomach facing his brother, gloved hands tucked under his chin as he kicked his feet in the air like a schoolgirl. 

“Well, it was your home,” Genji dropped his arms to lazily hang them over the bed, revealing the splatter of blood that stained his white _gi._ “You know, before you killed me.”

Wordlessly Hanzo turned and strode to the bathroom with a few utilities. After some grooming, the elder brother changed out of his _kyudo-gi_ into more casual attire. A plain white undershirt, navy blue hoodie and some long pants to hide his prosthetics. Nothing that would draw attention to himself. The archer passed by his brother again as he left the room. The young man was leaning back against the headboard of the second bed, deeply engrossed in some American comic book.

Hanzo needed a drink.

It was already dark when he left the motel and started to walk towards the old saloon he had passed on the way into town. The main room’s lights were dim; Tom Jones blared on the jukebox. A few other patrons sat mismatched about the room, all gazing down into either their liquor or their phones. Hanzo moved to sit at an empty stool at the main bar, slipped a few American bills over the counter, and placed an order for a tequila. The greasy barkeep eyed him a moment before taking the cash and turning to prepare his drink.

Hanzo’s gaze fell down upon the wooden counter as the gears in his mind began to turn. A coyote should be no different than the wolves he once hunted in the foothills with his father. But tracking a coyote wasn’t the problem, finding the right one was. Most of the eyewitness reports described in the newspaper claimed that it was unusually large. That could be one way to distinguish it. As for execution, Storm Bow would easily be enough to bring the creature down. One well-placed arrow through the neck would be enough to fell any beast. If it was a matter of speed or stealth, the firearms dealer down the street may have some traps-

His thoughts were interrupted when the front door loudly creaked back open. The archer heard the jingle of spurred boots meander toward him before a man sat himself on the stool directly to his right.

“Howdy there, Francis. Fix me up a nice Moonshine on the rocks if ya’d be so kind. Just add it to my tab.”

The stranger spoke with a honeyed Southern drawl; Hanzo figured him to be a local. Francis the barkeep slid Hanzo his shot of tequila before silently turning to fetch the other drink. The archer quickly downed his glass, savored the way it burned down his throat, and ordered a second before returning to his musings. Now then, the traps-

“New in town, aren’t ya, pal?” the stranger asked. The man allowed his elbow to slide down the bar so he could lean closer to his neighbor (not to mention invade his personal space). Hanzo silently exhaled through his nose before casting the man beside him a studious glance. For the first time he saw that the stranger had sun-tanned skin and a mess of scraggly chestnut hair, pressed down and into his face by a ridiculous cowboy hat. He flashed the archer a bearded grin and tapped at his temple with the silver forefinger of his metal prosthetic, waiting for a reply. He had a grease stain just below the collar of his white button-up shirt. Hanzo wondered if he even knew it was there.

“I am just passing through.” He answered after a moment, satisfied with his answer. His neighbor, however, was not so easily silenced.

“You and me both, partner,” the cowboy said with a hint of a chuckle. Francis came back and handed both men their drinks. Hanzo’s neighbor grabbed his and began to absently swirl the glass in his robotic hand. He continued on with his blabbing, not missing a beat.

“Name’s McCree, though my friends call me Jesse.” He introduced himself. “Mind if I ask yers?”

Hanzo downed his second shot and ordered a third, a light buzz beginning to creep into the back of his mind. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve before eyeing the man beside him again.

“My name is of no importance.”

“Aww c’mon, partner, I gave ya mine. It’s only fair that you tell me yours,” McCree smirked again and clapped the man beside him on the shoulder with his free hand. Hanzo jerked forward with the unsuspected force of it, his irritation rising. “That is, unless ya want me to start guessin’.”

“Hanzo,” the archer surrendered. He hesitated a moment, deliberating if he dare to speak his family name. “Shimada.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Shimada sir.” The stranger McCree paused to nurse at his drink. “Funny, I woulda pinned you as Mr. Arigato.”

The man laughed at his own joke, brassy and full-force. Hanzo’s fingers fidgeted with his empty shot glass. 

“Yes, how humorous,” he dead-panned. 

“C’mon Shimada, you should learn to lighten up a bit.” McCree playfully elbowed the other man and turned to his drink again. “We’re at a bar, after all. Life’s no fun when your sun don’t shine.”

“I am here on business.” Hanzo decided to use this blabbermouth to his advantage. “I am investigating a rather unique coyote problem. Would you happen to know of it?”

It was subtle, but Hanzo noticed it; the other man seemed to flinch at the question. His metal fingers tightened around his glass of moonshine, causing the half-melted ice to clink together. Then half a second later he rebounded, all smiles and charm once again.

“Why, can’t say I do. I’m only passing through, like I said before. Stayin’ at that cheap lil’ motel down the street. Didn’t even know them ky-otes were a problem this time of year.”

“There have been numerous newspaper articles about one in particular. Surely you must have heard something,” The archer pressed. McCree used his thumb to press his hat back and scratched at his hairline. There it was again, that tell-tale finger twitch.

“Don’t read much,” the cowboy said with a shrug.

It was then that Hanzo noticed something about him that he hadn’t before: his eyes were gold. No, not gold exactly; a twinge of yellow swept up in a swirl of chocolate brown. McCree looked up, and the gold flashed with light caught from the bar. The eyes seized the archer's gaze, a deer in headlights, then the yellow shine melted away and Jesse was calm. Hanzo pursed his lips and drank his third shot when it finally arrived, dismissing it as a trick of the poor lighting, nothing more.

“That is…disappointing.”

McCree tossed back the rest of his drink and swallowed the remaining contents in a single gulp. With a satisfied breath afterward, he stood and reached for a tattered swath of red fabric on the empty seat to his right. He flung it over his head and onto his shoulders, revealing it to be a dusty wool serape. 

“Sorry I’m no help to ya, Mr. Shimada, but I have somethin’ to check on back in my room. Was nice meetin’ ya, though. I’ll treat you to a drink next time, how’s that?”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. McCree.” Hanzo replied.

“Ah shoot, you can just call me Jesse! We’s drinking pals now, after all.”

The cowboy gave his neighbor one last tip of his hat before turning away, whistling off-key to the tune of Tom Jones still looping on the jukebox. Hanzo listened as the spurs died away, letting out a sigh when the front door finally closed.

“Chatty fellow. I like him, though. Sense of humor, unlike someone I know.” Genji chuckled into the back of his hand from the seat to Hanzo’s left.

“You would like the loud ones.” Hanzo muttered in reply. Genji’s laugh echoed in his ears as he stood and paid the rest of his tab. The archer kept his head down, bitterness and caution both guiding his feet back towards the motel to sleep off his inevitable hangover. He prayed that his brother would let him rest.

When the door behind the archer clicked closed, a silent patron sitting near the window remained fixated on the exit long after the two men had left. Once satisfied they would not return, he rolled up his sleeve and typed in a command on the device strapped to his forearm. After a few seconds, the small communicator chirped; _blue formation authorized_ written in Japanese kanji had popped up on the main screen. The man stood and quietly slipped back out the door.

Target found.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you that left a kudos or a comment on the first chapter! I wasn't expecting to get as many as I did. A few shoutouts go to Becksterres for proof reading this for me and to Manicies for spotting the Salt and Pepper Diner reference hidden in the first chapter, glad to know somebody caught it. 
> 
> Enough of me talking, so enjoy part 2!

Hanzo crouched with Storm Bow atop his rocky perch, meticulously surveying the valley below. The light from the full moon overhead crept down to drape the desert in an otherworldly blue hue. Somewhere in the distance a cactus owl crooned, and the sound stretched across the empty landscape, raspy and deep. While scouting the hills earlier that day, the archer had discovered a deep rut in the earth where some dried vegetation lay trampled. The mysterious path snaked along the curve of the land before veering upwards towards the top of the slope. Obvious signs of a frequented coyote trail.

Now, dressed in his _kyudo-gi_ once more, he knelt in a vantage point that oversaw the majority of the path, waiting patiently for his target to go about its routine. 

Hanzo twirled an arrow in his hand as his thoughts began to wander in the dark. Beside him, Genji sat with crossed legs atop a rock to his right, his bright orange scarf drifting silently with the slight breeze. The young man held a wooden slingshot, his gadget of choice from the brothers’ shared childhood, and was busy flinging phantom pebbles down the slope in an attempt to strike a flower bud from atop a cactus.

“Hanzo, I’m _bored,"_ the younger brother whined after missing his twelfth shot. Or maybe it was his thirteenth; Hanzo had lost count.

“I have a job to do,” the elder replied. Genji groaned and dramatically flopped back against his rock, limbs splayed out in all directions, much like the way Hanzo had last left his body.

“I wish that cowboy was here,” the young ninja’s voice interrupted his brother’s grim musings. “At least _he_ would pay attention to me.”

Hanzo scoffed, nocking his arrow into Storm Bow and flexing the string. “You are not real. You are dead.”

“I wonder if he’s an actual cowboy,” Genji sat upright again and rested his chin in his palm, pondering the possibility as if he had not heard his brother at all. His unnaturally pale face suddenly brightened as an idea came to him. “Oh! Maybe he’s one of those rodeo clowns! I would have paid to see something like that. What about you, brother?”

“Quit your blabbering and let me focus.”

“Aww, I know you, Hanzo. You’re thinking about him too,” his brother wore a sly grin as he spoke the words. The archer momentarily froze and for the first time that night glared directly at Genji.

“He dodged my questions, and was noticeably tense-“

“Not unlike _someone_ here I know.” Genji smirked again.

 _“Therefore_ it is reasonable that I would be suspicious of him,” Hanzo finished between grit teeth. “That man is hiding something, but I do not know what just yet.”

“Everyone has their secrets, brother.” The younger sibling suddenly spoke with an air of wisdom. “Father had his shit. I had my shit. Oh, and you _definitely_ have your own fucked up shit going on inside your head.”

Genji laughed. Hanzo was not amused.

“I simply do not trust that man. Let us leave it at that.”

Genji kept laughing. Deep down the archer knew his brother was right; everyone had their right to privacy. Still, something persistently kept his thoughts crawling back to that chatty gentleman from the bar two nights before. McCree had the aura of hypocrisy about him, not exactly in his words, but in his existence itself. Hanzo returned to the memory of the strange spark of electric gold he witnessed in the other man’s eyes, the way they had momentarily seized him. The way the cowboy could grin and speak his caramel-sweet compliments while his eyes bore down on the archer’s very soul. A ferocity chained down by smiles and charm. It was not right, and it perplexed Hanzo to no end.

Something down the ridgeline pulled the archer’s attention away from McCree and back into the present. A small shift of dirt underfoot; something was near. Genji had left him for now, allowing him a chance to focus. Hanzo readied Storm Bow again and scanned the coyote trail below him. No signs of movement, but he was not deterred. Just then he heard gravel give way and tumble down the hill, now off to his left. He turned quickly and caught glimpse of a shadow ducking behind another outcropping of stone.

Storm Bow’s string was taut, an arrow at the ready. Hanzo slowly began to creep forward to investigate. The shadow did not reveal itself. The archer’s footsteps were silent. 

All of a sudden Hanzo found himself on the ground, a large force having collided with his back. Storm Bow was knocked from his grasp and went careening down the slope, the rogue arrow shot straight into the dirt. The archer instinctively swung his elbow back and felt it collide with someone’s jaw. He then rolled onto his back before his assailant was upon him again. His attacker’s face was partly obscured by a cowl across his jaw, but Hanzo recognized his tactical gear instantly. Dark grey in color, two dragons in a never-ending spiral emblazoned in black upon his chest. A Shimada agent.

A flash of panic initially seized the archer, and the agent managed to seize Hanzo’s neck whilst he was distracted. Hanzo in turn clawed at his attacker’s face, desperate to find hold. His nails caught along the agent’s exposed forehead and drew blood, causing him to cry out and falter in his grip on the man under him. Seizing his opportunity, Hanzo blindly felt for where his arrow had embedded itself in the ground. Embedded deep in the rocks, it would not give at his tug. In a last effort he snapped the shaft down the middle and shoved the splintered wood deep into his assailant’s left eye. The assassin howled with pain and rolled away from the archer, writhing as blood from his wounds began to seep between his gloved fingers. Hanzo immediately jumped up and darted for his weapon, allowing his metallic heels to dig into the earth as he slid down the steep incline.

How did they find him? After so many years of lying under the radar, how did they find him only just now? What had he done wrong to alert them of his location? Perhaps he had grown complacent, too confident in his secrecy. If the Shimada clan still wanted his head, they would scour everywhere for him--

There was a flash of white hot pain as something buried itself in the muscle of the archer's upper right arm, causing him to falter in his footing. He tripped during his descent and tumbled the rest of the way down the slope, trampling over many a rock before landing hard on his left shoulder at the base of the hill. Bruised and disoriented, Hanzo took a moment to steady himself on one knee, his thoughts still racing a mile a minute. He reached for his injured arm and grimaced as he yanked out the iron _kunai_ embedded in his skin, gritting his teeth at the pain. 

His gaze snapped upwards again. The fight was not over: three more Shimada agents revealed themselves about ten meters back up the slope, all dressed in garb identical to the first. Hanzo scrambled to his feet again and made another run for Storm Bow, much closer this time.

His enemies were in hot pursuit. Hanzo felt the spray of dry soil as three more _kunai_ struck the ground just after him, small iron dogs biting at his heels. He reached Storm Bow and swept it off the ground, sliding to a stop and turning to aim at his pursuers in one fluent motion. He reached over his shoulder to nock an arrow, only to find his quiver was empty. His arrows had likely scattered during his fall.

The Shimada agents were upon him now. He had to act fast.

Hanzo side-stepped the first agent to reach him and grabbed the pit of his arm, grunting with effort as he used the momentum to turn and hurl his assailant to the ground behind him. He immediately turned again and raised Storm Bow just in time to intercept a katana strike from the second agent. The tempered blade caught in the sturdy wood, and Hanzo delivered a swift kick to the other man’s chest to push him away. The third Shimada assassin, a female operative, rushed at him with a knife; Storm Bow collided with her head as Hanzo swept a leg out to trip her. But something intercepted him, twisting around his leg and pulling. He saw the ground rush up to meet him as his feet were pulled out from under him.

The first agent pulled on the bolas wrapped tight around his ankle. Hanzo looked up just in time to see a foot swing up and strike under his chin. He rolled onto his back with the force, momentarily dazed as the three agents encircled him. The female agent pulled down her cowl as her comrade offered her his katana. The archer quickly sat up, only for one of his assailants to kick him back down and grind his boot into his wind pipe. The pressure cut off his air and made him dizzy all over again.

 _“Die, betrayer,”_ the woman spoke in Japanese as she raised the katana in both hands, prepared to skewer the man at her feet through the heart. Hanzo’s vision blurred as his grip on the other man’s ankle weakened, the dizziness becoming overwhelming. The world swirled around him, a blend of blue and grey. This was it. His fight was over. 

Hanzo barely registered the high-pitched scream of the female operative as the pressure on his neck was suddenly released. Gasping in a breath, he turned his head to see the woman on the ground, struggling in vain against the blur of brown on top of her. Her screams were abruptly cut off as the blur pounced at another agent, the deep rumble of animalistic growling finally reaching Hanzo’s ears. The beast sank its teeth into the man’s arm and started thrashing, flinging the Shimada agent left and right before the body went limp. Hanzo could only spectate from his place on the ground as third agent seized the discarded katana in an attempt to defend himself. But already it was too late; the massive beast surged forward like lightning and tackled him in a single bound. Hanzo heard the man cry out in both pain and terror as claws ripped into him, the sound of tearing flesh wet and raw.

Everything quieted for the archer again as the dizziness returned, the exhaustion or blood loss finally catching up with him as his adrenaline faded. As he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw was the creature creeping toward him, wild eyes shining gold with the reflection of the moon. 

\--  
Hanzo did not expect to feel himself wake. He slowly opened his eyes to reveal darkness still enveloping him. Was this what it was like to be dead, torn apart and eaten by some vicious monstrosity? If it was, it smelled horrible.

The archer slowly sat up, the soreness from his battle settled deep into his limbs. He reached out into the darkness and found Storm Bow beside him. Strange. He kept feeling his way along in the dark until he found a wall. Following it upwards, he felt what he figured to be some form hatch just above him. It was unlocked.

The early morning sunlight initially seared Hanzo’s eyes as he peeked outside. After they adjusted, he recognized the sign of the town’s sleazy motel towering above him, the lone fuel pump still rusted and untouched. He soon realized that he was in a dumpster, and after climbing out with his gear took a moment to wipe the grime from his _kyudo-gi._ Too injured and exhausted to ponder how he got there, the archer dragged himself inside the building and headed for his room.

Hanzo was too engrossed in staring at his feet to notice the other man coming opposite of him down the hall. They walked straight into each other, shoulders colliding at an awkward angle.

“My apologies,” Hanzo said without looking up.

“Not a problem, Mr. Shimada.” 

The archer stopped and lifted his gaze upwards to be met with brown eyes and a familiar toothy grin. McCree stood before him in the same dusty outfit Hanzo had seen him last in, hands tucked casually in his jean pockets with his serape thrown back over one shoulder. Although his smile was cheery, it could not mask the tiredness in his eyes. The cowboy looked Hanzo up and down and let out a sharp whistle.

 _“Damn,_ Shimada, you look mighty beat. Rough work catchin’ that ky-ote last night?” he asked. Hanzo uncomfortably rolled his aching shoulder, awkwardly avoiding the taller man’s gaze.

“You can say that, yes,” and he left it at that. McCree smiled and clapped him on the shoulder again, catching the archer by surprise a second time.

“Well, least ya made it back in one piece! Maybe you should lay off this coyote huntin’ business if it knocks you around this bad, for yer own sake.”

“I have accepted this task, Jesse McCree, and I will complete it,” the archer was matter-of-fact with his statement. The other man gave a slight chuckle and tipped back his hat with his thumb. He grinned as he always did, but his eyes betrayed him yet again; McCree was nervous.

For the first time Hanzo noticed that the other man’s canines appeared unnaturally sharp. Had they always been like that?

“A man who finishes what he signs himself up for. I can respect that,” he said. “Well, don’t let me stop you, Mr. Shimada. I betcha you’re exhausted from a night up in the hills.”

“Thank you. I will be in my room,” and with that the two men went their separate ways.

Hanzo clumsily unlocked the door to his room and tossed Storm Bow on the spare bed upon entering. He would clean it and put it in its case later. The archer fell flat against the mattress and let sleep take him instantly. He dreamed of snapping jaws and of yellow eyes in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost pure McHanzo flirting guys. I hope it delivers.

Hanzo had not left his room in the last two days.

The ambush sent by the Shimada clan had been completely unanticipated. They shouldn’t have found him. It should have been impossible. The last strut of his family’s criminal regime had collapsed some years ago, vanquished by Overwatch before it, too, fell to the ashes. But somehow, remnants of the clan had survived. Somehow, they had regrouped. The elders were still angered. Their dragons still craved his blood.

The room was dark and the shutters remained closed. The archer slouched back against the wall as he chugged the last of his sake from his flask. He glared at the empty container before he bitterly flung it aside. It bounced once and landed beside three other bottles of whiskey, each one drained and discarded in vague proximity to the trash. Hanzo picked up Storm Bow from beside him again and re-nocked an arrow from his set of spares. More strands of silver-black hair had fallen from his disheveled topknot to obscure his vision, but he did not care. His hands trembled, left arm itching as his own dragons squirmed underneath their tattoo, hackles raised and ready to kill.

The Shimadas were still out there. They would not catch him off-guard again.

Genji was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms folded over his bloodied chest. He shook his head and tsked, much like a displeased mother.

“You have grown sloppy, brother,” he chided. “Don’t you have a job to be doing?”

“The mutt can wait. I must assure my own safety first,” Hanzo growled. His hands would not stop shaking, even as the last of his alcohol settled in the pit of his stomach. 

“You are tired. You must rest,” the spirit of his brother spoke again, calm and patient. Traits Hanzo did not recall him having in life. 

“If I rest, that is when they will find me. I must be prepared. I will not allow-”

“What good will it do you in a state like this, Hanzo? Your judgement is impaired. Listen to your brother.”

“I know what I am doing. Do not question your elder!” the archer snapped. The savage roar of his twin dragons rumbled within his voice. With his lack of focus, the arrow suddenly slipped from his grasp, fumbling into his lap with a pitiful _twing_. Hanzo muttered a few Japanese curses under his breath and nocked it back into place. His breaths grew deeper in an attempt to steady himself again, all while Genji’s mocking laugh echoed in his ears.

“You of all people should know I was shit at that, brother.” The young ninja’s face grew a smirk, his tone suddenly shifting from concerned to conniving. “Oh, but not you. You were always Father’s precious little lap poodle, weren’t you? Running around doing all your cutesy little tricks in hopes you’d get a treat one day. Really took you to the vet and neutered you, didn’t they?”

Hanzo said nothing. Genji’s hands now rested on his hips and wore a dastardly grin, green eyes slitted and teeth sharp like the dragon he inherited. 

“Even when that old fart finally rolled over and died on us, you still didn’t have the balls to think for yourself. And don’t give me that ‘honor of the clan’ crap you always used to give, either. I never bought into it, but you were too far up Father’s ass and your own ass to notice how absurd it all was. You just went along and did whatever the elders told you to do. You even slew your baby brother, in cold blood. Left him to die on his very own doorstep. Didn’t even think about it. Man, how fucked up is that?”

Genji’s cruel laughter flooded Hanzo’s ears and rattled in his mind. The archer shut his eyes in a vain attempt to stop it. Stop the laughter. Stop the image of the katana slicing through his younger brother. Stop the screams. Stop the swell of hatred bubbling up and boiling in his chest, the dragons writhing around his arm. He wanted it all to just stop.

“Enough, Genji.” His voice was weaker than even he anticipated.

“No wonder the rest of our family wants you dead. You’re fucking pathetic!” the ghost went on. Genji let his chortling begin to subside as he wiped away a fake tear. “Hell, you’re not even worth the bullet they’re gonna put between your eyes. They’re gonna leave you for the vultures here, just like you did with me. And nobody’s even gonna miss you. A pathetic fate for a pathetic, pathetic man.”

“I said ENOUGH!” 

The arrow pierced Genji straight through his neck. His image evaporated instantly, wisps of green and white smoke fluttering in the air. The arrow stayed on course until it struck and shattered the mirror further in the bathroom. The small motel room was silent. Hanzo’s chest heaved with great effort as he dropped Storm Bow and allowed his head to fall into his hands.

 _Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic._ He lifted his head slightly and saw the familiar blood that forever stained his hands. His brother’s words stabbed deep into his chest and twisted at his heart. And deep down, he knew that Genji’s claims were justified. 

In his efforts to regain control of his rampaging thoughts, Hanzo did not heed the knocks on the door to his room. Nor did he notice when the door itself began to creak open. He only looked up upon hearing a familiar southern drawl. 

“Uh, Mr. Shimada? Everything goin’ alright for you in here?”

The archer lifted his gaze to see McCree hovering by the wall on the opposite side of the room. The door closed with a soft click as the cowboy shut it behind him with his heel. Awkwardly Hanzo cleared his throat and struggled to stand, the alcohol making him sway before his hand found anchorage against the wall.

“How did you get in here?” the archer snarled, though the wrath in his words was dulled from his slight slur. The dragons began to slither under his skin with suspicion again. Across the room the cowboy scratched and fidgeted under his hat with his robotic fingers.

“Uh, yer door was unlocked,” McCree jabbed the thumb of his other hand over his shoulder back toward the entrance. “My room’s a few doors down. I heard you hollerin’ up a storm in here and thought I’d come to scope it out.”

Upon fully gaining his balance, Hanzo let go of the wall and stumbled to cross the gap between them.

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Now, if you don’t mind,” the archer paused to jam an accusatory finger into the other man’s chest, “get the fuck out of my room.”

“Easy now, partner. I’m just here to help you out.” Jesse threw his hands up defensively. “But I must say you look sicker than a dog right now, Mr. Shimada.”

“Like I said, I will make that judgement myself, thank you,” but as the words left his mouth, Hanzo felt himself swoon as he began to fall backwards. Something cool and metallic wrapped itself around the archer’s wrist and pulled him upright again. But the momentum was too great, and Hanzo felt his face collide with the taller man’s chest. McCree wrapped an arm around him in an attempt to keep him steady.

“Careful there, Hanzo,” Jesse’s voice brimmed with concern. “Look, I don’t know what’s eatin’ you, but I can tell when a man’s got himself in a bag of trouble. You sure you’re feeling right as rain?”

The use of his first name caught the archer off-guard. He attempted to push himself away, but lacked the strength and the clarity to properly do so. His nose was pressed deep into the wool of the red serape. It smelled of alcohol and of hickory smoke.

“Stop talking your nonsensical...cowboy-isms and let me go,” Hanzo demanded. His words were muffled by the other man’s shirt.

“If I do that, you’ll fall flat on your face.”

“I will not. Let me go. This is humiliating.”

In response, McCree lightly patted the shorter man on the head. “Okay, how’s about we ease you down on one of those beds over there instead?”

Hanzo felt the other man adjust his grip on him as his senses began to dull. Sometime later he awoke with a skull-splitting headache.

The archer forced himself to sit up on his bed, massaging his temples as parts of the room still danced and spun around him. McCree was gone; the scent of the smoke on his serape still filled his nostrils. He looked over to his bedside table and found three things out of place: a glass of water, an aspirin, and a single yellow post-it note. Hanzo fumbled for scrap of paper and read the blocky writing scrawled upon it.

_Hope this helps. -JM_

\--

Some days later, Hanzo found himself scouring over the local newspaper as he waited for his morning tea to brew. Reports of the coyote rampages had moved north in the past few days, the most recent from a town just across the border into Nevada. No reports of bodies found mutilated up in the hills. He pondered if it was just a matter of time. 

By noon the archer had checked out of the motel and began the trek northbound. He followed the Interstate, close enough to follow the course, far enough to go unnoticed by curious traffic. After three hours, he stopped for lunch. Five hours, and he crossed the state line. At seven hours the sun slipped down behind the horizon, and finally, at the nine hour mark, his destination came into sight.

The archer made his way into the main part of town and found that it was much more lively than his last hideaway had been. Roads were better maintained, buildings were newer and stood taller. Main street was lined with tourist traps and souvenir shops, restaurants and bars. He wandered the twists and turns of the alleys until he found another place to stay. A local inn, part of some small franchise commonly found here out west. Already an upgrade from the last location. 

Hanzo found his room and collapsed onto his bed, exhausted from the long day behind him. That night in his dreams he recalled a distant memory: two brothers in the midst of their teens, a fishing trip up into the mountains near Hanamura. He had been happy then.

\--

The archer rose late in the morning the next day, aches from his journey still rooted somewhere deep within his muscles. He dragged himself out of bed and freshened up in the bathroom before he realized he was hungry. Recalling a passing mention of free breakfast from a member of the staff, he quickly changed into his casual attire and left the room…only for the door to whack someone else in the face as they strode down the hallway.

“Oh! My apologies, I didn’t-” Hanzo froze once he recognized just who exactly he had smacked.

“Shit! Boy, that one stung,” Jesse McCree rubbed under his nose and checked his fingers for any sign of bleeding. Once satisfied that a broken nose wasn’t the case, he looked over to the man beside him. Hanzo saw his golden-brown eyes light up upon recognizing him.

“Mister Shimada! You’re looking better. Funny runnin’ into you again all the way up here in Nevada,” the cowboy flashed his signature grin and jokingly tipped his hat in greeting. The archer scanned him up and down for a moment, the door to his room acting partially as a shield to separate them.

“I am sorry for hitting you,” he spoke after a moment. Jesse chuckled, the sound sweet like caramel, and waved a dismissive hand.

“Not your fault. Damn door’s in the wrong way. Betcha they could get sued for that if someone got fed up enough.” 

“Are you following me, Jesse McCree?” Hanzo’s question was direct and to-the-point. He was in no mood for games. The cowboy stopped and blinked at him, confused by the claim. Then in an instant he erupted into another fit of cheery laughter. 

“I could ask the same thing to you, Shimada,” McCree replied. His smirk never faltered. Hanzo had half a mind to slap it right off of his face.

“You know very well why I am here. I have a beast to kill,” the archer resisted his urge and instead spoke with restraint. “As for you, I can’t recall you ever saying what you’re traveling for.”

“To be frank with ya, I’m not quite sure either,” the cowboy mused with a scratch at his beard. He absently chewed at his lower lip in a moment of thought, unaware that he was giving the other man another glimpse at his unusual canines. Bright white against a deep tan. “Call it a little road trip, if ya want. I just go where I wanna go.”

“I see,” Hanzo replied. Not an impressive excuse. 

“Anyways, enough about me. I was just on my way to see if there were any scraps leftover from the breakfast this mornin’. Care to join me?” 

The cowboy extended a welcoming hand, and again Hanzo eyed it with suspicion. Jesse waited for the response, his infuriating smile as bright as ever. The archer felt his fists clench around the edge of the door.

“I am not hungry. Goodbye.” And with that, Hanzo slammed the door in the other man’s face.

The archer spun around and let his back slide down the door as he entered a sitting position, legs crossed and palms pressed flat into his knees. After a moment, the defeated jingle of spurred boots began to fade away further down the hall.

 _Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic._ Genji’s taunt rang in his ears again. Hanzo simmered in silence, anger, distrust, and a third feeling he did not recognize swirling in the pit of his stomach. 

\--

Three days of scouting the desert proved fruitless. The soil was too dry to solidify any prints this time of year, and he found no signs of fresh kills or buzzard carrion. Nor did he find any signs of the beast’s reported foraging. No chewed tin cans, no half-eaten chicken carcasses from the deli. Either this coyote was smart, or it was just damn lucky. It was likely a mix of both.

Eventually, Hanzo settled for placing the traps he had purchased from the firearms trader. He scattered them along the outskirts of town, mindful to keep far enough away from the threat of careless civilians. Until another report of the creature was filed, all he could do was wait.

\--

Hanzo adjusted the reading glasses upon his nose before turning the page of his book. The chorus of electronic drones from the washers and dryers filled the room, but he was able to pay the noise little heed. The archer had discovered a laundromat just a block down from the inn. Considering that he had found himself in a dumpster some time ago, among other things, he figured that some of his gear could use a proper wash. 

Not counting himself, the laundromat was empty, save for a kind-faced elderly woman folding her belongings at the opposite end of the room. With most of his clothing in the wash, Hanzo was forced to dress in a simple black sleeveless shirt and blue pajama bottoms. The archer’s eyes shifted up from the pages to check the estimated time remaining on his dryer’s cycle. Ten more minutes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the older woman finish her task and start towards the door. The bell above the exit rang before she reached it, and Hanzo heard her give thanks to whoever had opened it. The archer spared a glance and saw the flash of a familiar smile alongside a tip of a hat. McCree held the door with one arm, a basket of clothes tucked under the other. Internally, Hanzo groaned.

“Afternoon,” Jesse greeted as he sauntered up and sat on the bench next to the other man. “Hardly recognized ya with those glasses there. Wear ‘em often?”

“Only when reading.” The archer curtly flipped to the next page. His gaze did not waver from the small paperback in his hands.

“Well, I think they suit you. Might want to keep ‘em.” Jesse chuckled. Hanzo immediately buried his nose deeper into the book. The mystery feeling from before began to resurface in his chest. 

A silence settled between the two men as McCree began his load of laundry. Hanzo wondered how much longer his own load would take. The archer finished his current chapter before sparing another glance in the cowboy’s direction. The other man was currently on his phone, scrolling through a social media site Hanzo did not recognize. Much to his surprise, McCree had slipped off the T-shirt he had been wearing to add it to the wash. Hanzo managed to catch a glimpse of his build. He was muscular, more so than what the archer had previously estimated, yet his edges had been softened by some extra weight at his waist. Still, the archer had no trouble imagining what he could have been back in his prime. A young man with looks to match his endless charm. 

Even Hanzo was unaware of how long he had been staring until McCree spoke again.

“So, what book you got there? Just curious,” he asked. Again Hanzo cleared his throat to diffuse his illusion of tension and returned his eyes to the paperback.

 _“The Wolfman._ Nicholas Pekearo. Found it at the library.”

“Werewolves, huh?” Jesse laughed to himself again. “I don’t read much, but I’ve always liked me a good werewolf movie. Know Van Helsing? Now that’s my kinda guy. Shootin’ up baddies left and right.”

McCree formed two guns with his fingers and imitated gunshots with his mouth. The corners of Hanzo’s lips curled upward slightly, amused by the other man’s antics.

“I have heard of him,” the archer replied. “Based on the doctor from Bram Stoker’s _Dracula.”_

“You sure know your books, don’t ya?” McCree smiled again, chin resting comfortably in the palm of his metal hand. For the first time, part of Hanzo began to ponder why he had it.

“They help pass the nights on the road,” he said, turning another page. Suddenly the dryer in front of him beeped and began to slow to a stop. The ten minutes were up. Hanzo snapped the paperback shut and began to sort through his clothes, placing them back in his duffel bag once everything was neatly folded.

“See ya around, Mr. Bookworm,” McCree sent the archer on his way with a smirk and a mock-salute. Hanzo stole one last glimpse at the other man’s bare chest before he hurried to the door with a quick ‘goodbye’. The strange feeling had not left him.

\--

It was midnight and Hanzo was restless. He had made his rounds to the traps an hour before; no use checking them again so soon. In the end, he wandered the halls of the inn until he found the stairs to the roof access. He desired fresh air.

Upon reaching the top of the inn, however, he realized that he was not alone. Sat near the edge of the building was the silhouette of a man, his shadow cast long by the light of the moon. The figure dabbed some ashes from his cigar before placing it back between his lips. A red serape flapped quietly in the valley breeze.

For a moment Hanzo was tempted to turn back around and return to his room. But instead he coughed to alert the other man of his presence. McCree swung a glance over his shoulder and waved before patting the ground beside him. Tentatively, Hanzo moved to sit next to him.

“Come to clear your head?” the cowboy asked. He sat with his body leaned forward, arms resting casually on his knees. The orange glimmer from the embers of his cigar reflected in his eyes.

“You could say that,” Hanzo shrugged his shoulders as his gaze turned upwards. The crescent moon was still perched high in the center of the night sky, a flurry of stars swirled around it. The view reminded him of the clear summer nights from the excursions with his father, when he would sit outside of his tent and stare at the silver stream of lights above him with a childlike awe. 

“Pretty nice sight, ain’t it?” Jesse’s words jerked him back to the present. “You can see a lot of stars out in places like these. None of that light pollution to mess with it. Wonder how many of those fancy constellations you can see from here.”

After studying the sky for a moment, Hanzo came up with an answer. “Four. Possibly five.” 

McCree exhaled a waft of cigar smoke and chuckled again, tipping his hat back as he looked to study the stars as well. “You sure know your stuff, Hanzo. Mind if I call ya that? Mr. Shimada is a tad too formal for my liking.”

“Hanzo is fine,” the archer allowed. His attention turned to scan the hills along the horizon. Somewhere in the distance a coyote gave a lonesome howl. He entertained the idea of it being his mark. Suddenly, he felt something place itself in his lap. He looked down and observed that it was a bottle of moonshine.

“There’s that drink I promised ya. Hope you like it,” the cowboy said with a wink. “Was gonna have it for myself, then you came along.”

Hanzo studied the label for a brief moment. _Red Desert Moonshine._ Must be a local brand.

“I appreciate the gift,” the archer replied. He would definitely save it for later.

“By the way, never brought it up before, but that’s a nice tattoo you got there,” McCree gestured to the other man’s exposed left arm with his cigar. Hanzo felt his dragons jump under his skin at the compliment.

“Thank you. It has been with me for many years now.”

“So then,” Jesse returned the cigar to between his teeth and smirked. “Do you get one pet dragon or two with that baby?”

In an instant, Hanzo froze. In the next instant, he had McCree flat on his back. His grip held firm on the taller man’s collar.

“How do you know the secrets of the Shimada clan?” he demanded. “It is no wonder you’ve been following me so closely. You’re an agent sent to eliminate me!”

“Whoa, whoa, easy partner!” McCree threw his hands up the best he could to defend himself. “I ain’t no assassin! Well, not much of one anymore, anyways.”

Hanzo’s grip on the shirt collar tightened, his spiteful glare intensifying. “You will explain yourself. If you do not give a satisfactory answer, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“I was gettin’ to that before you jumped me, damn it. Just get offa me and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Hanzo studied McCree’s expression for a moment. A mix of surprise and annoyance, but overall the man seemed to be telling the truth. With a huff the archer yielded and backed off of him, allowing the other man to sit back up. Jesse adjusted his hat atop his head and placed his cigar back in his mouth again. 

“You familiar with Overwatch at all?” he asked. 

“Vaguely,” Hanzo said. His eyes studied the other man thoroughly for any sign of sudden movement. “I know they played a considerable part in dismantling my family’s regime. But that was long after I left.”

“Well, I used to be herded up with the lot of ‘em, back in their heyday.” the cowboy explained. Hanzo eyed him up and down again.

“Overwatch? You?”

“I ain’t surprised you’re doubtin’ me. Really let myself go the past few years,” McCree jokingly patted the curve of his stomach. “But I was a genuine hotshot with them back in the day. All the way up until it crashed and burned. I wasn’t the division that dealt with the Shimadas, but I managed to scrape up enough details from those who were. That was mainly the squad that had the other Shimada guy in it. Funny kid, once you got to knowin’ him. Scared me shitless when I first saw him summon a damn dragon in the training room.”

“I see.” In the back of his mind, Hanzo wondered if he knew this other Shimada agent. He could not recall any members disbanding before his departure from the clan. He figured it unlikely. 

“Anyways, I was all up in the Blackwatch division,” McCree went on. “Special ops unit. Took me in for my sharpshootin’ skills. Real dirty work. We were s’posed to keep all hush-hush about the stuff we did. Can’t say I’m proud of everything that went on there. But hey. It was a better deal than my last gig.”

“Your job before Blackwatch?” Hanzo pressed. At the question, other man fidgeted with his hat, obviously uncomfortable. 

“Shit, I’ve gone and babbled myself into a corner again, haven’t I?” Jesse mumbled. “It’s somethin’ I’d rather not talk about right now, partner. But I told you how I knew about your dragon. Satisfied?”

Hanzo mulled over the other man’s words. It all seemed too detailed to be fabricated. However, McCree seemed just like the sort of man that could pull such a lie off.

“I will trust you,” the archer finally conceded. “However, as I said before, I will not hesitate to end your life if you prove that my trust is misplaced.”

“The secret’s safe with me, Hanzo.” Jesse smirked and winked at him again. “Now that that whole mess is settled, I wouldn’t mind catchin’ a glimpse of you using that bow. Maybe I’ll show you my skills with Peacekeeper as a trade.”

“Peacekeeper?” Hanzo asked. In response, McCree reached into the holster strapped to his belt and pulled out a modified six-shooter. The silver barrel glinted brightly in the moonlight.

“My trusty partner, right here.” Jesse laughed. “She's never failed me before.”

“Hmm,” Hanzo hummed in thought as his stare shifted towards the stars again. “A silly name for a gun, if you ask me.”

“Yeah? And what’s that bow of yers called?”

“Storm Bow. Simple and straightforward.”

“Peacekeeper’s still a million leagues better, in my opinion.” 

The two men shared a laugh. Hanzo questioned the last time he had spoken to someone in a way such as this. After a moment, the archer stood up and turned towards the door that led back inside the inn.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I should be going.”

“Nighty-night, Hanzo. Nice chattin’ with you.” Jesse waved the archer off and returned his attention to the horizon. Hanzo reached the door and slowed to a stop, casting one final glance over his shoulder.

“Two.” 

“What was that?”

“You asked how many dragons I possess. I have two.”

The archer then made his way down the steps towards his room, mindful to shut the door to the roof access behind him.

\--

The following night, Hanzo organized the remainder of his supplies. After tallying everything he had up, he realized he had grown short on food. A late night trip for groceries was in order. 

A little while later, the archer returned to the inn with a single paper bag tucked under one arm. He scaled the stairs and made for his room. As he crossed the hallway, a strange sound drifted into his ears. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder in an attempt to locate the source. He noticed that one door remained open slightly, just enough to reveal a sliver of light from inside. Against his better judgement, Hanzo turned and approached the door, toeing it open ever so carefully. He now recognized the sound to be a music on a radio, the recording old and scratchy. A woman was singing. 

Near the radio on the desk, McCree sat back in a wooden chair, so much so that the front legs were completely off the ground. The only thing keeping him from toppling backwards was one foot anchored on the desk, and he was gently rocking himself back and forth with it. He had a few empty bottles of alcohol on the floor next to him, another half-empty bottle of moonshine still loosely gripped in his lap. In his right hand he had Peacekeeper, dangling limp with the rest of his arm. Jesse chuckled to himself before he hiccuped, spinning the gun lazily around his fingers along with the music’s languid rhythm. 

“Why don’t you do riiiiight,” the cowboy drunkenly sang along with the woman on the radio. “Like some other men-”

McCree rocked his chair too far back, and his balance was immediately lost. The cowboy tumbled backwards and landed square on his shoulder, his back toward the door. Hanzo heard a sharp hiss of a curse as the man shifted onto his elbow and gripped his head. Then he awkwardly tried to drag himself back towards his bed to right himself. He struggled for a few moments, the fingers of his prosthetic just barely missing the folds of his sheets before he fell limp again. Jesse’s shoulders began to tremble with silent sobs, an occasional sniffle reaching the archer’s ears.

Hanzo quickly stepped away and pressed his back against the wall. He felt as if he had just stumbled upon something intimate, something he was never meant to see. He had been eavesdropping, after all. He quickly glanced both ways to make sure nobody was watching him before he darted down the rest of the hall to his room.

The next morning, McCree would wake to find three things placed atop his bedside table: a glass of water, an aspirin, and a single post-it note.

_Hope this helps. -HS_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while everyone. Training a new puppy, loads of babysitting, and getting sick can all be a major hit on progress, lol. This chapter's a tad short, but things should be a lot more interesting from this point on. Enjoy!

The nights out in the desert gradually cooled as the seasons began to change. The blazing inferno of summer slowly sedated itself into the warm-cold malaise of autumn. Soon it would be October, the final quarter of a year gone by too fast. Then not long after that the seasons would change once again, a flip would switch. The red sands would turn electric blue with nightly frost, only to fizzle away come the next morning sun. A repeating cycle of hot and cold, life and death, two mighty dragons chomping at each other’s tails. 

The autumn gloom had brought with it an overcast that night, the clouds so thick that even the light of the moon could not pierce through. Outside was pitch-black, the tendrils of darkness creeping in to root itself into the town. Hanzo’s metallic heels rhythmically clicked down the sidewalk, the line of hazy yellow streetlights serving as his only guide. Storm Bow and its quiver were slung over his shoulder; after the ambush, it would have been unwise of him to leave the inn at night without it. 

One of the traps had caught an unlucky desert Cottontail earlier that night. The archer had reset the iron jaws and left the body as bait for a larger target. He hoped that his luck would change before the temperature began to dip into below freezing. 

Hanzo solemnly reached for the flask on his belt and flipped the cap open with his thumb. He sensed Genji’s presence near him, an occasional flicker of green amongst the shadows. The younger brother had been hesitant to show himself since their last confrontation. Instead, he paced around in the back of the archer’s mind, his cheerful laugh corrupted, morphed into a reptile’s hiss. Hanzo knew he would have to apologize sometime soon, as he always did. The same repeating cycle, two dragons chasing their tails. 

The archer jolted and nearly dropped his flask when the metallic crash sounded unexpectedly behind him. Hanzo whirled around and saw the lid of a trash can swirl on its face before rattling to a stop. The rest of the bin lay toppled in the nearby alleyway. Instinctively he tucked the flask away and readied his weapon, eyes narrowed with suspicion. His mind raced through all the possibilities of danger; it would not stop until he saw the source of the clamour for himself.

The streets were heavy with an uncanny silence. Hanzo crouched down and quietly approached the alley, sidestepping the fallen can as he flexed the string of his bow. The alleyway was long and narrow, the darkness inky and thick like the rest of the town, though it was illuminated in part by a lamppost stationed at the opposite side. The yellow haze of light flickered as something darted past in the shadows, the tumbling of a discarded bottle accompanying its movement with a dull rattle. The archer’s eyes snapped towards the silhouette as it stopped near what appeared to be the back door to one of the buildings. Hanzo watched in silence as the black mass sniffed at the heavy padlock that hung from the knob. The shape of a tail emerged from the shadow and came into view, flicking behind the shape with intrigue. He recognized the outline of the creature to be canine: sturdy hind legs, sharp claws, an elongated muzzle. Then the creature stood up-- no, it did not fully stand, rather it had shifted its weight onto its back haunches to scratch at the metal door. Only then did Hanzo realize the true size of the thing in front of him. There, body stretched upwards and leaning into the door, silhouette black against a yellow hue, the beast was absolutely massive. The outline of its snout was level with the broken exit sign above the doorframe, the dancing tail probably as long as the archer’s arm.

There it was. Hanzo’s target, right there before him. Powerful and beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.

The archer remained alert as the beast began clawing at the door’s iron padlock. It was distracted. Now was his chance. Hanzo nocked an arrow and stretched back the bowstring, considering his angles before settling on the head. All he needed was a clear shot through the neck, just enough room to pierce the windpipe and make it a swift, clean kill. 

The beast must have noticed him then, for it sprang off of the door to turn in a hurry. Hanzo let his arrow fly after it as it entered a sprint, but his target was too quick. It whirled around the corner in a brownish-black blur, the arrow finding a home in the wooden lamppost. The archer cursed under his breath as he too broke off into a run. It had taken him ages to even find the beast. No way in hell was he going to lose it now. 

He heard the beast’s thunderous footfalls already what he wagered to be a block ahead of him. He followed in hot pursuit. Hanzo caught fleeting glimpses of it as it passed under the streetlights: brown fur, claws extended, pointed ears, something shiny he couldn’t quite identify. The archer had followed the creature at least seven blocks by now, and it showed no signs of letting up. Suddenly the beast slid to a stop to make a sharp turn into another alley. Its hind legs veered out behind it before kicking in the passenger side door of a parked car. With a metallic _crunch_ , the car door fell away like it had been tinfoil. Hanzo ignored the ensuing car alarm and used the pause to close the gap between him and his target. If he could slow it down one more time, he would be able to make a shot that would guarantee a swift end.

The beast came upon a chainlink fence at the end of the alley and leapt over it in a single bound. Hanzo was quick to follow and scaled the fence with ease, vaulting himself over the top and landing on what he knew was desert floor. The ground faded from pavement and morphed into hard, cracked earth as the hunter and the hunted made their way out of town. Hanzo felt himself slow as the ground began to slope down and his footing grew more uneven. He was in his prey’s element now, a territory he could not so easily navigate as streets or fences. In the poor light, he fired a blind shot in the direction of the fading footfalls, only to hear it strike the ground some twenty feet ahead. The sound was dull and disheartening.

Damn it. Hanzo’s chest swelled with rising frustration. After all his efforts, all his planning, it was still able to worm away. Irritation enthralled him. The archer would have killed it if he hadn’t stopped to gawk. Perhaps the damn mutt was smarter than--

_Click._

_Creak._

_Crunch._

A sharp, sudden cry filled the chilly autumn air, half of it like a howl, the other half a high-pitched shriek. Hanzo stopped in his tracks and listened for a moment, waiting for the dreadful noise to fade away into the darkness. Slowly he continued down the slope as it began to level off. Storm Bow fell to rest at his side. With his free hand he reached for a loop on his belt and pulled out the small utility flashlight he had bought for his nightly rounds. The archer followed what he now understood to be the sound of whimpering and found what he expected to find. There at his feet lay the mighty beast that had caused him so much strife, flat on its side with its right foreleg in a cold iron trap.

The beast whined as the harsh blue iris of the flashlight fell upon it, and it made a final effort to tug at the trap and get away. The effort was futile, and it pitifully stumbled and fell back onto its left side, pinning its other foreleg under its own weight. It curled up its hind legs protectively underneath it as Hanzo approached. A low warning growl rumbled deep in its throat.

The archer stopped to examine the strange sight in front of him, and he quickly came to one definitive conclusion: this was no coyote.

As he had seen in the first alleyway, the beast’s size was that of a man’s, if not even more so. Its fur consisted of varying layers and shades of brown, chocolate to hazelnut to dust. Warm colors made harsh under the contrast of the flashlight. One of its ears was frayed and lazily sagged into a fold, signs of a fierce struggle endured many years in the past. Hanzo flicked the flashlight down to the hind legs-- _yep,_ definitely a male. The beast growled again, and the archer returned his attention to the beast’s mighty jaws. Nothing short of a row of jagged white knives. The top incisors were almost long enough to be visible when the maw was closed. The beast’s burning golden eyes bore into him, a swirl of rage masking a twinge of fear. A last display of bravado before certain demise.

This was no coyote. This was a full-blown wolf.

Hanzo cast his light up and down the fallen creature a few more times. The metal teeth of the trap had drawn blood from just above the right paw. The foreleg dangled awkwardly and pathetically in the trap, practically useless. It was then that Hanzo swore he heard the beast sigh. The once-mighty wolf, the former king of its domain, slumped flat against the ground and let itself grow still. The golden irises fell away to study the bleakness of the desert sand before they closed. A painful and humiliating admittance of defeat.

Hanzo remembered the Cottontail that had fallen to another of his traps earlier that day. Something small and harmless and afraid. It was then that the archer came to his second conclusion: he could not bring himself to kill the creature in front of him.

“Easy now,” Hanzo’s tone was gentle as he slowly knelt down beside the trap. The wolf cracked a curious eye back open, laying as still as possible in order to not upset its foreleg. The archer carefully placed both the flashlight and his weapon down and raised his empty hands, displaying that he meant no harm. The golden eye watched with scrutiny as Hanzo leaned in to work the mechanism at the base of the trap.

“I am sorry for the pain I have caused you,” he spoke slow and soothing as his hands toiled at the metal teeth. “You are a very noble creature. You’ll be out of there soon enough.”

The wolf seemed to study him up and down one last time before the eye slid shut again, letting the man do his work. Soon there was another _click_ , and the iron maw relaxed. Hanzo gently pulled it open the rest of the way and removed the wolf’s leg. The beast seemed to sigh again, but this time there was a sense of relief. 

The archer slid the disarmed trap off to the side before picking up the flashlight to get a better look at the injury. The bleeding had already stopped in most places, leaving behind a matted clump of red-stained fur. A deep gash had carved itself through the skin and near to the bone, the skin around it chafed raw. He reached a hand toward it to examine further; the wolf growled in protest.

“I know it hurts, but there is good news. The bone is not broken,” Hanzo assured it. “It will heal. I will help you.”

A memory flashed before the archer’s eyes: a warm day in the late springtime, the cherry blossoms around the estate in full bloom. Two brothers were seated by the koi pond. The younger child cried; the elder examined the cut on his sibling’s knee and helped him clean it with a wet cloth. The older brother then helped the other stand before the both of them moved inside.

Returning to the present, Hanzo felt the nightly desert chill begin to prickle at the back of his neck. He slowly began to rise, mindful not to startle the wolf as he did so.

“I will need more light. I’m going to gather things for a fire and return here. Do not worry.”

The archer turned away to search for what he needed, and soon enough, he had the beginnings of a fire before him. The wolf had not shifted from its original spot in the time he was gone. Hanzo wondered for a moment if it had fallen unconscious from loss of blood, but then an ear flicked in greeting to him as he knelt down to examine the wound again. The beast was only resting. 

Hanzo pulled out his medkit from his pouch and began his work. He cleaned the wound with only a few growls of discomfort for his efforts before attempting to suture the gash. It was not the cleanest of surgeries (he had never given stitches to something so hairy), but it was enough to close the wound and prevent further bleeding. He hoped the wolf would be wise enough to not chew the thread out before the foreleg was fully healed. Finally, he wrapped the limb with some protective gauze and made sure it would stay set. The wolf cooperated the entire time, either too pained or too exhausted to utter a protest.

Genji hissed a laugh in the back of his mind, and Hanzo could only agree with him. It was unusual of him to care so much for a wild animal, especially one he had been contracted to kill. But then he looked up and saw the eyes again, yellow and gleaming and proud, and the answer clicked with him.

“You are the beast that protected me when the Shimadas attacked, aren’t you?” He asked. The wolf gave a two-tone whine as a reply, though its exact meaning was unclear. Hanzo felt the faintest of smiles creep across his lips.

“I must thank you, then. I owe you my life. Consider this my humble repayment. I apologize again for hunting you.” 

In response, the wolf only yawned. It licked its chops before finally shifting to change position, mindful not to rest too much weight on its injured limb. The beast curled in on itself and faced the dancing flames of the small fire. Hanzo watched as the golden eyes blinked slowly a few times before they finally settled shut. The beast’s mighty chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as it drifted off to sleep.

The archer began to turn away when something unexpected glinted in the firelight. His gaze fell upon the wolf’s left foreleg, the limb previously hidden from his sight. Hanzo’s eyes widened upon realizing just what exactly he was looking at: there, wired into the wolf’s upper arm, was a silver robotic prosthetic. 

The shape resembled that of a regular wolf’s claw, metallic fingers extended out and sharpened into fine razor-like edges. The cool grey metal ran all the way up to the elbow, and Hanzo made note of paper-thin lines he knew to be scars where steel met flesh. A blue strip alongside the length of the prosthetic gave off a soft neon glow, though its purpose remained a mystery. Different in many ways, it was true, but still eerily similar to another robotic limb he had grown accustomed to seeing these days. 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed with suspicion again as he moved to give the beast some space. He took a seat at the opposite side of the fire and stared, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the creature’s haunches as it slept. The archer’s mind wandered, perusing and studying the many unknowns of the situation he currently found himself in. All the what-ifs, the theories, the questions he would inevitably have to ask and face the answers for. Genji snickered at him in the dark again. Sometimes he wished his brother would just leave him be.

Up and down. Up and down. Hanzo felt his own eyelids begin to grow heavy. He resisted the urge to rest until his thoughts began to jumble. The answers would have to wait until morning. There was little he could do out here in the dark with the wolf at his side. Finally, while against his better judgement, the archer laid himself down flat against the cold earth. He stared up at black clouds and wished he was able to study the nebula of stars he knew lay behind them. Sooner or later he let sleep take him, the soft crackling of the fire guiding him to his dreams.

\--

When he woke the wolf was gone, the fire having crumbled into ash an hour or so before. The beast left no trace of its existence, save for the blood staining the teeth of the trap. Hanzo groggily sat up and rubbed at his eyes before he heard something in his back pop back into place. Probably not one of the most comfortable places he had chosen to rest.

The heavy grey clouds from the night before had cleared, and the sky grew lighter as the morning sun neared the eastern horizon. He estimated it to be around five in the morning, just before dawn. Hanzo quickly shook the soreness from his limbs and gathered his belongings, the events of the nights before racing through his brain. His questions returned to him, and he still lacked his answers. As he knelt to pick up Storm Bow, the archer allowed himself a long, final glance at where he had last seen the beast curled up by the fire. Eyes golden and glimmering, the odd floppy ear, the massive brown body curled up to protect its treasured left foreleg. Then the archer stood and turned away, leaving the ashes and the campsite without another glance.

\--

Later that morning, Hanzo presented a dead female coyote to the Wildlife Control office at the local police station. He told the story that it had been stealing food from buildings because it had been pregnant with no pack to support it. The examiner weighed the body, considered it for a moment, then finally signed off on some reports. He granted Hanzo his payment, and the archer swiftly left the building before his lie was discovered.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all of you who have been keeping up with this little story of mine. This chapter was particularly fun to write. I hope you all enjoy!

“McCree!”

Again Hanzo’s fist pounded fast against the door. “I know you are in there. Open this door at once!”

For the third time that evening he was met with silence. The archer had initially been hesitant in pursuing this confrontation; part of him still pondered if his reasoning was rational or just flat-out insane. About an hour ago he had approached the door with his chest swelled with determination, only to turn and flee back to his room a moment later. But Hanzo knew he could not avoid this conversation for much longer. His encounter with the wolf the night before had raised one too many questions. Questions, he wagered, the cowboy could answer. 

Hanzo knocked hard on the door once more. “McCree-”

“Step off,” the voice behind the door sounded distant, the words weighed down by sleep and liquor. “Leave me alone. M’busy.” 

“McCree!” Hanzo shouted again, sharp and demanding. From inside the room he heard the iron bed-frame creak. A soft thud followed not long afterwards as something collided against the door.

“I told ya to _step off."_ Jesse was louder this time, the southern drawl less slurred than before. “Can’t a man get some damn peace?”

A pause. Hanzo sighed a silent exhale, a hand reaching up to massage one of his temples. Genji tsked at him in his head and gave an empty chuckle: _Always so quick to be rude, aren’t you, brother?_

“Mc- Jesse,” the archer began again, his tone now soft and subdued. A frenzied dragon held back on a leash. “I am sorry to bother you, but there are some urgent matters we need to discuss. If you could humor me and answer a few questions, I will leave you be. Please. That is all I ask.”

The voice behind the door was quiet for a long moment. The silence carried with it a thick fog of tension. It pressed down heavily upon the archer’s shoulders, along with a twinge of guilt. After ten grueling seconds of no response, Hanzo turned to take his leave. Just then he heard the lock of the door give way with a _click._

McCree cracked the door of his room open about a quarter of the way. He moved to lean his weight on the doorframe and almost missed it entirely. Hanzo met the other man’s bloodshot eyes and immediately regretted his previous shouting. The white shirt was wrinkled and buttoned in all the wrong places, the sleeves uncuffed and rolled down to obscure his forearms. Some form of canteen dangled lazily from his fingers. The signature hat and serape were missing, revealing a mass of unkempt brown hair fluffed up atop his head. He wasn't smiling.

“Make it quick,” McCree grumbled. Hanzo’s eyes flicked over to the arm resting against the doorframe. Behind the faded white fabric of the shirt sleeve poked out something else; a tightly-wound bandage, recently cleaned and redressed.

“You have injured your right forearm.” He noted aloud. He was not surprised. McCree reached up and scratched at his beard with his metallic hand. Hanzo watched as reddened eyes studied him closely.

“S’pose I have.” His reply was clipped. “What’s it to you?”

“I don’t suppose you have an explanation for such an injury?” Hanzo’s question was more of a demand than an inquiry. The cowboy’s fingers fidgeted with the canteen in his left hand, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the edge of the cool metal.

“Well, how’d _you_ reckon I got it then?”

“I believe we both know the answer here, Jesse McCree.”

Another pregnant pause. McCree’s fingers stopped drumming against the canteen, allowing for the ticking of a nearby wall clock to fill the silence instead. Hanzo saw the brown-red eyes flash gold again, boring down onto him with furious scrutiny. The image of knife-like teeth in the dark flashed through the archer’s mind. A predator’s gaze.

Then suddenly McCree relaxed. The tension was gone; he looked exhausted again. The cowboy mustered up a shadow of his usual smile and chuckled.

“Nothin’ gets by you, don’t it?” he said. The gap in the door widened as Jesse motioned for the other man to step inside. “Best not talk out here. Don’t want any looky-loos to start gettin’ nosy.”

Hanzo stepped inside Jesse’s room and locked the door behind him. Immediately smoke flooded his nose, the scent a harsh but a familiar one. The room was as he remembered it from when he had caught a glimpse some nights before. A half-finished cigar sat fuming in an ashtray on the room’s desk. Beside it sat a few glass bottles of alcohol, each one filled with differing levels of booze. The archer watched McCree kick away the pillow he had chucked at the door before falling back flat onto his room’s queen mattress. He grabbed Peacekeeper from its resting place on the bedside table and started to spin the spur built into the gun’s grip.

“So,” he began, not looking up. “What’s eatin’ you, partner?”

Hanzo moved to sit on the desk chair before he replied.

“The ‘coyote’ I was contracted to hunt. It had a metal prosthetic similar to yours. _Too_ similar, in fact.”

“Did it now?” The cowboy continued to fidget with the rusty spur. Hanzo felt his brow furrow slightly at the flippant response. Insisting on playing dumb, was he?

“Yes. Not to mention it was also injured on its right foreleg.”

“Bet _that_ hurt like a bitch.”

“Jesse.” The firmness in the archer’s voice was what snapped the other man’s attention away from his gun. The two locked eyes again, brown eyes glaring back into brown.

“I think you are able to piece together what I’m insinuating,” he continued. “All I ask is _how.”_

“How what? You think I’m some sorta werewolf? Like the ones straight outta Hollywood?” McCree laughed, a genuine one this time, and went back to fiddling with Peacekeeper’s spur.

“What’s so funny? You think I’m insane?” Despite the irritation that filled his voice, Hanzo wouldn’t exactly blame the other man if he did end up thinking so. McCree’s smile returned to him for the first time that night, but Hanzo still noticed something off; there was a sadness in his eyes, mournful yet relieved all at once.

“Naw.” The cowboy spoke quietly, his metallic finger stopping the spur in mid-spin. “I just find it funny it took this long for anyone to figure it out.”

So it was true. A million questions began to race through Hanzo’s mind again, almost enough for his head to start spinning. He settled for the simplest one.

“How?” He repeated. “How is this -- how are _you_ even a possibility?”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” McCree began. He moved to place his trusty gun back on its place on the nightstand. “Hell, I didn’t wanna believe it at first, either. I’d show ya how I do it first-hand, but I’m too tired tonight. Long day, still sore.”

“Get to the point.” The archer interjected. He expected the cowboy to snap back at him with a rebuttal. Instead he only received a side-eyed glance from the bloodshot eyes. McCree reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out two things: a lighter and another cigar. He popped the lit cigar between his lips and breathed in a deep puff before he spoke again.

“Remember how I said I don’t like talkin’ about my job before Overwatch?” he said. “Well, there’s a few reasons for that.”

“I remember you mentioning it,” Hanzo replied. “You never said what it was.”

“I was in a gang. Called themselves Deadlock. We weren’t as fancy or widespread as you Shimadas were, but we had our lot and we stuck with it. Ran smugglin’ ops all throughout this American Southwest here. There were a few rival gangs that tried to jump our claims every now and then, but Deadlock was more than just a bunch of young punks with guns. We had a secret weapon, and I mean secret. Big bosses would shoot ya dead if they caught wind of you talkin’ about it anywhere.”

“I assume this treasured secret of theirs is your...condition?” Hanzo was hesitant to call it what it was: real-life lycanthropy. He was still trying to come to terms with everything he had just learned, that a legend from ancient fairy tales could exist in such a modern era. 

“Bingo.” McCree paused to tap some cigar ashes onto the floor. “Well, it wasn’t just me, you know. Everybody who rides with Deadlock has to join the pack, if you catch my drift.”

“You have got to be joking.” Hanzo deadpanned. Not just one werewolf, but a whole gang of them. Part of him wondered if the events of the past few weeks had just been a fever dream he can’t seem to wake up from. 

“But y’know, they don’t really _tell_ you that when you sign up with ‘em.” McCree’s mood suddenly soured again, the cigar drooping in his mouth. “Hell, they had to hold me down and inject the head honcho’s blood into my neck to get me to turn. Just a sixteen-year-old mixed kid too dumb to pass high school, down on his luck and in over his head.”

The room grew silent for a moment. Jesse exhaled a spout of cigar smoke and bitterly shook away the ashes again. Hanzo remembered himself at the age of sixteen: still quiet and brooding, always too shy around the girls Father presented to him. He entertained the idea meeting Jesse in the earlier years of their lives. Genji would have taken to him more, most likely.

Hanzo stopped his musings when he realized the room was still quiet. McCree was gazing out the window, lost in thought himself.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” the archer began tentatively, “are you aware how Deadlock acquired this ability?”

McCree chewed on his cigar as he tried to recall. 

“I would overhear the higher-ups chattin’ about it now and then,” he spoke. “Apparently way back when, just before the whole Omnic Crisis business broke out, some scientific research facility ‘round here was doing some shady stuff. Maybe it was the beginnings of them Talon bastards running around now, maybe someone else. Hell, coulda been the damn US government for all we know, a little side project to their Super Soldier program.

Anyway, these scientists were supposedly experimenting with DNA found in the local wildlife until some asshole said ‘hey Kyle, what do you think would happen if we inject this shit into a human?’, and so they rounded up a few Death Row inmates from the nearest max-security prison and pumped ‘em full of whatever they had made. Those that didn’t drop dead instantly had the new gene fuse with somethin’ in the blood or some other science-y bullshit like that, and bam! Real life werewolves.”

The cowboy paused to take another puff of his cigar. The brief silence allowed Hanzo a chance to process the new information. A form of advanced gene modification; not just magic after all. 

“So naturally, the inmates weren’t very happy about being turned into guinea pigs, so they got together and tore apart the whole facility before runnin’ off into the wild,” McCree continued. “Guess they started a gang and decided to keep the gene going throughout the years. Why the fuck they decided that, hell if I know.”

“You said it yourself, it is considered a secret and effective advantage over opponents.” Hanzo spoke. Jesse chuckled again, but the sound was cruel and hollow.

“Yeah, _sure,”_ he said, “but it sure wasn’t enough when Blackwatch kicked our doors in and shot the shit out of half of us. That was probably a year or two after I got roped in. Managed to gun down a few guys before Commander Reyes personally grabbed me and hauled my ass off to an interrogation cell. Broke my nose that day. That was fun.”

“And that is when you joined the Blackwatch division?” Hanzo asked. Jesse nodded, one of his signature smirks returning.

“Yep, and sure glad I did. Met a nice little lady named Angela, a medical assistant and an aspiring miracle-worker at the time. She researched whatever the hell had been pumped into me and showed me how to better manage it. Even whipped me up this fancy little arm that morphs when I do after I lost the other one. I owe her a lot. Probably would have ended up like the other sons o’ bitches if it weren’t for her and Overwatch…”

“What do you mean? What ‘others’?” Hanzo raised an eyebrow at the cowboy’s strange remark. It was then that archer noticed Jesse tense up again. He inhaled another deep waft of his cigar and gave a long sigh. His bloodshot eyes seemed to glaze over.

“This werewolf bullshit. It affects everyone a little differently, but it can get to ya.” The man’s voice grew quiet as he ground the butt of his cigar into the palm of his metal hand. “And I don’t mean the ‘boo-hoo-hoo I’m a freak’ Hollywood drama kinda gets to ya, Hanzo, I mean it _burns_ you. Some double-edged sword kind of fuckery. If you ain’t careful, use it one too many times in a week, bite one too many people, you are _gone_. No way you’re comin’ back from that. Some Deadlock teams would go off on a warehouse raid and have to drag one poor bastard back home with a muzzle, even after the transformation wore off. Sometimes we’d just put a bullet between their eyes right there, but if there was more than one we’d let ‘em loose in a cage and bet on which one kills the other first. It happened more often than you’d think, Hanzo. It was sad. I felt sorry for them poor sons o’ bitches.”

The archer remained silent. McCree heaved himself off the bed and lazily tossed the cigar butt in the vague direction of the ashtray. It landed just to the left of its target. Hanzo brushed it in for him.

“It appears we both have pasts we do not wish to remember,” the archer replied at last. McCree cracked open his window to give the smoke a chance to escape the cramped room. Hanzo was glad to have some fresh air.

“Them other Shimadas sure wanted you dead, huh?” Jesse smiled and leaned an arm on the windowsill, mood swinging from somber straight to cheery upon the change of subject once again. “You don’t gotta tell me why if you don’t want to.”

“My father was a powerful man amidst our clan,” Hanzo said. For the first time that night he allowed himself to lean back into his chair. His arms folded thoughtfully across his chest; one of his dragons grew restless at the mention of its master’s father. “You could say _the_ most powerful, in fact. I was destined to take over the Shimada empire upon his death. When he passed away, I was forced to do something I cannot forgive, and so I left without a word. The remaining elders have been hunting me down for my betrayal ever since, even after the attempts made by Overwatch to dismantle them.”

“So that’s what that whole shebang in the desert that night was about?” Jesse laughed a bit to himself again. Hanzo cocked another eyebrow at him.

“Just what were you doing all the way out there that night, anyway?” he asked. The cowboy gave him a shrug.

“Checkin’ you out, what else? If I had a Shimada hot on my tail, I wanted to scope out what he was capable of. Of course, when the other guys showed up, I couldn’t just leave you hangin’.”

“A life for a life, then. Consider us even.” Hanzo replied with the hint of a smirk. “What did you do with the bodies, by the way? Don’t tell me you ate them.”

“Hey, just because I can turn into a beast don’t mean I act like one.” McCree feigned offense with a slight pout. Hanzo quickly scanned the disheveled state of the small room and allowed himself a chuckle: he begged to differ. 

“I went ahead and buried ‘em. Still gotta show some respect to the dead, even if they are a bunch of sneaky motherfuckers,” Jesse finished. “But a man’s gotta eat, and I’m near broke as it is. Figured a few supermarkets and food stops wouldn’t mind a missing can of soup or a turkey here ‘n’ there, right?”

“About that,” Hanzo interrupted. “I turned in a separate coyote to cover for you this morning. It may be wise to change up your meal plan, unless you want another hunter chasing you down sometime in the near future.”

McCree frowned and scratched at the top of his head. “Well shit. How else am I gonna eat?”

“You come with me.”

Both men seemed shocked by the proposition. The words had slipped between Hanzo’s lips before he could properly consider them. Jesse blinked at him a few times before his face practically lit up.

“Shit, you serious?” He asked. Hanzo felt himself nod.

“I have a feeling some members of the Shimada clan are still close. I have some money saved up, especially after collecting your foraging bounty. We are both men with secrets. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Never pinned you as the charitable type, Han. We got ourselves a deal.” McCree grinned, his honeyed drawl oozing with charm. The archer couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“We leave tomorrow at dawn. Be packed and prepared for a long walk. Goodnight.”

With that, Hanzo stood and left the room to return to his own. He quickly readied himself for bed and lay down in the dark. His eyes remained fixated on the ceiling, suddenly finding it impossible to fall asleep. Long minutes passed as his mind wandered, dancing between images of McCree and his form as the wolf. Eventually it came to settle on the man shirtless in the laundromat. Hanzo shoved a pillow over his face and rolled over onto his side, that same strange feeling he could not recognize worming its way back into his chest. He hoped that sleep would take him soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, IT'S DONE. Very sorry for the long wait: not only is chapter super long, it went through at least 7 rewrites. Not even kidding. I just hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Very special thanks for users Ichi and Gothkaz for beta-ing this chapter!

Hanzo readied himself the next morning and found McCree still in bed. The man was asleep on his stomach, an arm holding Peacekeeper dangling lazily over the side. The archer decided to rouse him by smacking his back with a firm pillow. Jesse jolted awake mid-snore and quickly examined the room. Realizing who had disturbed him, he relaxed and reached his free hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“I told you to be ready by now,” Hanzo said flatly. The cowboy rolled over and sat up, still blearily scratching at his face as his senses slowly returned.

“Can’t a man get his beauty sleep?” he slurred. “What time is it, anyways?”

The other man responded by grabbing McCree’s bag from its seat on the desk chair and hurling it into his lap.

“Five o’clock, at dawn. You have ten minutes to pack up and meet me outside or else I’m leaving you behind.”

Hanzo ended up staying for twenty. McCree stumbled out of the inn just as the archer started to turn and take his leave. Equipped with his hat and serape once again, the man fell into step with his new partner, a single bag slung over his shoulder.

“Thanks for waitin’ up,” Jesse began with a grin. His previous grogginess had left him, and he had returned to his loud, boisterous self. “Thought I set an alarm, but guess it didn’t go off. Sorry ‘bout that, Han.”

“Just don’t make a habit of sleeping in. And don’t make me regret my offer to let you come with me,” came Hanzo’s sour reply. He was not quick to forget things that disturbed his delicate schedule. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw McCree’s smile shift into a playful smirk.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, partner.”

The two left town through main street and followed the northbound highway. The early morning sky was a wash of blues and light greys, still waiting for the sun to emerge and bring its swath of warm yellows and orangish-reds. Gusts of wind would occasionally sweep down the hills and spill throughout the valley, chilled by autumn and the previous night. For a long while their trek was silent, the only sound the crunch of sand under their heels. McCree started to whistle then, a shrill tune, all of the higher notes sounding slightly offkey. Hanzo tolerated the noise, for it filled the desert silence and kept Genji’s jests at bay. The archer entertained himself for a few minutes by trying to place a name to the song. The tune was mellow but cheery: much like the cowboy himself.

They hiked along for some time until whistling gave way for conversation and storytelling. McCree spun tales from his days in Deadlock and Blackwatch; heroism and devilry both. He shared the names of men made allies and of those shot down. Again Hanzo listened. The archer had grown comfortable with travelling alone over his many years of exile; he still had Genji, who would occasionally grace him with his company (whether Hanzo wanted him to or not). But a new voice to walk beside him and fill the autumn air, distract him from the threat of Shimada serpents on his heels, was welcome still.

Hours had passed, and the sun now hung at a comfortable distance above the horizon. McCree wrapped up a tale regarding a stealth operation in New Mexico, then asked if Hanzo had any stories to share.

“Unfortunately, my life hasn’t been as exciting as yours,” the archer replied. A lie, of course, but some things were best kept to himself.

“Aww c’mon, Han, a man like you must have somethin’ worth sharing,” the cowboy insisted. His brown eyes twinkled as he flashed a small grin, the two sharp canines poking out from between his lips. Hanzo let a small exhale escape from his nose: a silent sigh of surrender.

“I will tell you _one_ ,” the archer said. He paused to think a moment. “...One time I was passing through Vera Cruz. At a market, I found a stray dog trying to steal scraps off of some food stalls and decided to give it a piece of a roast I had bought. It followed me for five days after that.”

McCree laughed, the sound warm and sweet like honey. “Aww, shucks, that’s a good one. Did you end up keeping it?”

“No. I found it a home a few towns south. A family -- two women and their kids. They were in need of a good guard dog.”

“Well, that was awfully nice of you,” Jesse replied. He chuckled again and jabbed a thumb back to point at himself. “Guess you got yourself a habit of takin’ in strays now.”

As they walked, Hanzo allowed more and more tales to slip past his lips. He spoke of his excursions into the mountains from his youth, recalled a few cold nights in a safe house near Chicago. He spoke of the cherry blossom trees in his father’s garden and how they would bloom in the spring, how the stars looked when away from city lights. He avoided the topic of family -- McCree was kind enough not to pry.

Hours continued to pass. The talking dwindled as fatigue began to set in. The two followed along the highway until mid-afternoon. They stopped in a small town nestled tightly between the foothills and found a place to hide away at another small inn. They were given a room with two queen-sized beds and a shared bathroom. Somewhat small, but agreeable nonetheless.

“We will take a few days to rest and re-equip, and then we’ll move on again.” Hanzo placed his belongings on one of the beds to claim it as his own. “I don’t want to sit around and wait for the Shimada agents to pinpoint my location.”

The archer began to unpack. McCree tossed his bag in the general direction of his bed and flopped backwards onto the mattress.

“Fine by me,” he mumbled a tired response. “Now if ya don’t mind, I’m going to catch a few winks. My feet are killin’ me.”

Hanzo remained silent as he sorted his belongings, allowing the other man some peace. McCree tipped his hat over his eyes and let his head fall heavy against his pillow. The cowboy was asleep almost instantly; a soft snoring swelled to fill the small space. Hanzo finished unpacking what he needed and silently slipped his two bags underneath his bed. Then he turned and moved to exit the room. The door gave with a _creak_ , McCree fidgeted in his sleep. The archer paused and glanced over his shoulder, studying the other man for a brief moment. Hat blocking the light from the window, face obscured, fingers neatly folded together on his chest, one leg dangling lazily off the side of the bed. Hanzo hovered by the exit for a few more seconds, listening to the cowboy’s rhythmic breathing, before continuing on his way. He made sure that the heavy door did not slam on his way out.

\--

The following morning was grey and overcast -- a sight not that uncommon this time of the year, according to Jesse McCree. Hanzo twisted the hot water knob to the “off” position and exited the shower. Steam still lingered and warmed the cramped bathroom as the archer reached to unravel the waterproof wraps around his prosthetics. As he worked, Hanzo couldn’t help but let his mind wander towards his current situation in-depth. Here he was, the fallen prince of Hanamura, running from a criminal organization that was supposed to be long-dead, with a wannabe cowboy that he had essentially bribed into being his bodyguard. Not to mention his new partner -- and not just him, an entire _gang_ of outlaws and misfits (he wasn’t over that) _\--_ was able to transform into a wolf at will thanks to the wonders of genetic modification.

Hanzo stopped and took a moment to massage his temples. The whole mess was enough to make his head spin. He placed the wraps aside and quickly finished drying the rest of his body. He turned on the sink and splashed his face with water as cold as he could get it, hoping that it would be enough to freeze the oncoming headache. He looked up and saw that the bathroom mirror was still fogged up from his shower. He reached up a hand to wipe away the condensation and felt his heart almost stop when he saw a second face peering over his shoulder.

“Peekaboo!” Genji’s voice was loud in his ear. The archer let out an involuntary shout of something in Japanese and scrambled away from the mirror, nearly slipping and falling on the tile floor beneath him. The young ninja burst out laughing with his hands on his knees, absolutely delighted.

“Ho-o-ly shit! I got you good!” He choked out between laughs. “ _Damn_ Hanzo, you should have seen your face! You were all like ‘AAA’ and I was all like-”

“ _Never_ sneak up on me like that again!” Hanzo shouted, jamming an angry finger towards his younger brother. “I thought you had finally decided to leave me the hell alone.”

“Why would I do that, brother? You’re too fun to mess with!” Genji stood straight and wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Oh man, I wish I could have recorded that. And while you were _naked,_ too! Fucking classic!”

Hanzo struggled to resist the urge to slap the smirk from the apparition’s face. He had tried before and knew it did not work. The brothers’ quarreling was suddenly interrupted when he heard a knock on the bathroom door.

“Uhhh, Hanzo? Is everything alright in there?” McCree’s concerned tenor spoke from within the main room. The archer instantly froze; he had forgotten that he was no longer alone. Genji turned to him with a mischievous smile and waggled his eyebrows. Hanzo made a sharp motion with his hand for his brother to be quiet.

“Everything is fine,” he called through the wooden door. “Sorry to have startled--”

Genji couldn’t stop himself from snickering again, earning another burning glare from his elder brother.

“I told you to stay out of this,” Hanzo hissed in a harsh whisper. McCree’s voice sounded from the other room again, this time slightly hesitant.

“Uhh, okay, partner. If you say…”

Hanzo needed to think fast: anything to evade the cowboy’s eminent stream of more questions.

“Listen, could you please fetch me a jacket from my bag? I will be out in a moment.”

“Right. Roger that.”

Hanzo heard the other man step away from the door. He grabbed the rest of his clothes from their place on the counter and quickly started to dress, desperately trying to will the form of his dead brother away. But Genji was persistent today, and he clearly had his own agenda.

“So, you and Mad Dog McCree are buddies now?” The ghost wore a knowing smirk and crossed his arms over his chest again. “I’ll give you some credit, at least he’s prettier than the one from the old arcade game.”

“Just what are you insinuating?” Hanzo pulled up his boxers and shot his brother another side-eyed glare.

“Oh. I think you know _exactly_ what I’m insinuating, brother.” Genji’s smirk did not waver. Hanzo scoffed.

“It is not that kind of partnership, Genji,” the archer deadpanned.

_“Jesse and Han-zo, sitting in a tree~”_

“For _once_ in your life, Genji, will you stop being so _childish?_ ”

Another knock on the door. McCree cracked it open just enough for a robotic hand to slip through with the navy blue jacket.

“Found it,” he said, a twinge of awkwardness carried on his voice. “Need anythin’ else?”

Hanzo quickly yanked his undershirt the rest of his way down his waist before he moved to snatch up the jacket.

“No, thank you. That will be all.” Hanzo gave a speedy reply and immediately shut the door, severing the gap between them. The archer returned to dressing himself, silently fuming at the fact that Genji was still seated on the countertop beside him.

“What’re you waiting for, dude?” His brother pointed a pale finger towards the door. “You should go chat him up. You’re going to be stuck with each other for a while, after all. Get to know him a bit more!”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Hanzo mumbled, wary not to attract Jesse’s attention outside for a second time.

“Come onnnn, don’t you have any balls? Oh wait, neutered, right.” Genji snickered to himself and leaned back against the mirror. His reflection was absent. “I’m not sure what you’re even afraid of. He likes you already. You practically have a head start!”

The archer paused in the middle of pulling his pants up over his prosthetics. He looked towards his brother and raised an inquisitive brow. The ghost gave a playful shrug with a teasing smile.

“What, you haven’t noticed? He approached you in that bar that first time for a reason,” Genji said. Hanzo only rolled his eyes and continued with what he was doing. “Go on and do something already!”

“He’s only here because of the deal we made.”

“Yeah, the deal _you_ proposed. The old Hanzo I know wouldn’t have done something like that. Admit it, brother, you want the cowboy around.”

“Yes, for protection.” The archer was quickly growing impatient. “Have you not been paying attention?”

“ _I_ have, but I think _you_ need to start.” The apparition wore another of his sly, knowing smiles. Hanzo was just about done with his brother’s shenanigans. He quickly grabbed his yellow scarf and tied his hair up into his usual topknot before elbowing his way past the younger man and into the main room. He found McCree laying back on his bed, cleaning Peacekeeper’s chamber with a tattered old rag. Upon hearing the door to the bathroom open, the cowboy glanced up to meet Hanzo’s eyes.

“Hey,” he greeted awkwardly. A tense silence hung in the gap between them briefly. The archer had almost started to say something when Jesse sat up and began to speak again. “Hey-uh, Hanzo. So I’m not sure what was going on in there, but--”

“I do not need your sympathy.” Hanzo spat. Suddenly Genji appeared off to McCree’s left, arms crossed and shaking his head with a frown. _Not very nice, brother. Try again._

“Look, I’m not trying to pry or anythin’,” McCree continued, “but I’m just letting you know I’m willing to listen if something’s eatin’ at you. We’s partners now, after all. Gotta be able to trust each other, right?”

“I appreciate your concern, McCree, but I assure you it’s nothing.” The archer said, patience continuing to wear thin. Across the room, Genji batted his eyelashes and made a sound that imitated kissing before gesturing to McCree again. The cowboy followed Hanzo’s gaze and peered over his shoulder, only to return his attention to the other man when nothing was there.

“See somethin’?”

“Just a little pest.” Hanzo’s eyes narrowed as turned away. The archer stormed towards the front door, passing the room’s only table and swiping up the first bottle of alcohol his fingers could find. He heard McCree sit upright on the bed again.

“The hell you going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Hanzo slammed the door behind him and flicked off the bottle cap with little effort. Genji leaned back on the wall beside him, reptilian irises cold and judging as his elder brother downed the contents as fast as he could.

“Still a coward, I see,” said the ghost.

“Shut the fuck up, Genji.” Hanzo wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve before he moved to continue down the hall. He left the building and felt the wind chill his skin. The archer nursed the bottle as he walked down the empty street, thoughts of the cowboy and his brother all blending together in the mess he called his head. Hanzo finished his drink and only then decided to check the label.

 _Red Desert Moonshine._ One from Jesse’s stash.

The glass bottle shattered against a dumpster as the archer passed an alleyway. Hanzo buried his hands deep into his pockets and continued to wander alone, a familiar thing to him by now. Perhaps he was merely destined for solitude.

\--

The awkward encounter was forgotten come the afternoon of the next day. Earlier that morning, the two had left for the local market to get fresh groceries. They had split up and gathered their separate shares of food (McCree was rather modest with his amount of rations, to Hanzo’s surprise) before retreating back to their room. Currently the archer found himself with his nose buried into another novel. Occasionally he would sneak a glance towards McCree on the other side of the room. The cowboy remained as he had been for the past hour: listening to some music through his earbuds while playing Solitaire on his phone. A comfortable silence had settled between them, the two men equally engrossed in their own affairs.

Hanzo stole another glance when he heard McCree finally start to shift around. The other man sat up in the bed and reached into his bag of groceries. He dug around for a moment, humming softly along to the tune of whatever he was listening to, before he pulled out what appeared to be a small package of cookies. He laid back in bed and ripped the bag open, reaching in and grabbing a snack as he returned to the game on his phone.

Normal enough, until Hanzo caught a glimpse of the label on the bag. He sat up straight, double-checking he was reading it correctly, before shooting the cowboy a puzzled look.

“Are you eating _dog treats?”_

Jesse looked back at him and removed one of his earbuds. Half of a bone-shaped biscuit dangled out from between his lips like it was one of his cigars. The cowboy blinked at him a few times, the room remaining silent for a good ten seconds. Then he slowly reached up and removed the half of the bone.

“They’re bacon flavored,” he defended himself weakly. Hanzo continued to stare. McCree sat there like he was dumbfounded, eyes wide, half the dog treat saddled between his fingers. The asymmetry of his earbuds, his excuse.

The archer couldn’t help but laugh. It started as a small chuckle, hardly big enough to hear, but soon more and more laughter began to trickle past his lips. Every time he looked back towards the cowboy, another round of giggles erupted from his chest. Soon it crescendoed into a full, genuine laugh -- the first Hanzo had in years. Across the room, Jesse still looked like a deer in headlights.

“What? What’s so funny?” he asked. The archer’s laughter continued, too tickled to properly speak, and soon Jesse couldn’t help but join in with a laugh himself.

“You...you’re _ridiculous_ ,” the archer finally managed to gather enough air to speak. He looked back towards the cowboy and instantly regretted it. Jesse had stuck four more biscuits between his teeth and was flashing a wild grin. Hanzo fell flat against his bed with another fit of laughter, unable to control it after having it caged for so long. The two kept at it until a loud _bang_ against the wall alerted them that their neighbors had listened to enough. The two returned to their previous activities, minding their own business once again. The comfortable silence soon returned, although now an extra bit of cheeriness hovered in the air with it. Hanzo felt Genji prod at him from the back of his mind, and the archer suddenly felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over him. He buried his face deep into the pages of his novel again, desperate to hide the redness of his face from the man snacking on dog treats across the room.

\--

Hanzo woke to a sudden noise sometime in the dark of night. Instinctively he reached for Storm Bow beside him with one hand, the other moving for the arrow hidden underneath his pillow. He soon relaxed when nothing unordinary could be found in the room. He let his trusty bow fall back into its place as he sat up. The archer reached up to brush loose strands of his silvery-black hair away from his face. Grogginess still partially dulled his senses, but he was at least certain an assassin from the Shimadas was not upon him.

In a flash he remembered Jesse, and looked across the room to the other bed. The covers had been kicked completely onto the floor, and the cowboy stood bent over with his head out the open window. Hanzo saw the other man’s shoulders shudder as he coughed, thick and raspy as if he was struggling to breathe. As the fit slowly crawled to completion, McCree let his body relax. He remained with his head hanging out the window, the fingers of both hands clinging desperately to either side of the windowsill.

Hanzo stared into the other man’s back, watching his sides heave as he tried to regulate his breathing. Tentatively, the archer stood up and began to approach. Just before he reached the cowboy, there was a sudden flash of something silver catching in the moonlight. Hanzo froze when the barrel of a gun was shoved straight into his face. McCree _growled_ , the sound low and foreboding. His brown irises flashed gold, the sight piercing under the shadow cast across his face. The growling abruptly stopped upon recognizing the archer, and Jesse let the gun drop to his side. He slouched backwards, his weight supported by his metal hand still planted firmly on the windowsill.

“Is everything alright, McCree?” Hanzo asked. Everything was obviously _not_ alright, but he felt compelled to ask nonetheless. Jesse coughed again, this time to clear his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, just don’t...don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He still sounded out of breath. Hanzo’s eyes flicked towards the open window quizzically for a moment before his attention returned to McCree.

“Any reason you’re up this late? You look ill.” Hanzo gently pressed. The cowboy placed Peacekeeper back into its holster on his belt and swept his hand through his matted hair. The archer watched the other man’s movements closely. His right hand started to fidget with the spur in his gun’s hilt absent-mindedly. McCree struggled to form words, nervously glancing this way and that around the room.

“I’m fine, I’m good. Had a dream. Needed some fresh air. Look, I’m _good_ , Han. This wolf business, y’see. Sometimes I get antsy if I don’t use it for a while. Get all anxious, y’know? Is it hot in here or just me? Jesus. Sorry if I woke you up. Ignore me.”

Hanzo was reminded of a week or so before, when he had found McCree in one of his iron traps. Somehow, he looked more powerless now than when he was pinned down at the archer’s feet. Suddenly the cowboy scrambled to get his head back out the window for more fresh air. His shoulders began to tremble again with each new suffocating cough; Hanzo wouldn’t have been surprised if the other man had lost his dinner with one of them. The archer lifted a hand, hesitated for the briefest of moments, and placed it carefully onto McCree’s back. Half for comfort, half to make sure he did not fall face first out of a third story window.

“It’s okay, Jesse. Just breathe.” He was careful that his words were soft. It took a moment, but soon McCree’s staggered breathing began to steady. He came to rest with his elbows on the windowsill. Hanzo kept his hand where it was, careful not to startle the other man with any sudden movements. He let go when Jesse finally stood straight. He ran another hand through his hair and turned towards Hanzo, fiddling with the collar of his white T-shirt as he did.

“Sorry ‘bout all that pal,” he said awkwardly. He mustered up a weak chuckle, struggling to mask the exhaustion apparent in his eyes. “My mind gets to wanderin’ towards places where it's not welcome sometimes.”

“No need to apologize,” Hanzo replied. The archer studied the other man closely again, noted how his hand hovered close to Peacekeeper’s holster. “Will you be returning to bed?”

McCree awkwardly chuckled again, avoiding eye contact. “Gee, ain’t that a million dollar question.”

Hanzo sighed. So desperate to hide his troubles yet so miserably bad at it.

“I will wait up with you, if you wish.”

“Aww shucks, Han, you don’t gotta--”

“I can and I will.” Hanzo’s reply was firm, his decision already made. “I’m wide awake now, anyways.”

The two settled for channel surfing on their room’s outdated holovid TV. Most shows on at this hour were either home shopping advertisements or utter nonsense, but it was something to fill the quiet. Hanzo flicked on his bedside lamp and continued to read his book, watching McCree out of the corner of his eye. The cowboy lay back with Peacekeeper in hand, watching the current channel with minimum interest. Time passed. Programs ended segments and began new ones with the passing of the hour. Eventually Hanzo felt his eyelids begin to grow heavy again, and he found himself glancing back over towards McCree. The man had his hat placed over his face and his gun still in his hand, but he was apparently asleep. Hanzo clicked off the holovid and reached to turn off the table lamp.

“Hey Hanzo.”

The archer paused, casting another glance over his shoulder towards the other bed. Jesse still lay with the hat obscuring his face.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

\--

Outside, thunder boomed. The nightly autumn overcast had brought a storm along that evening, a rare rainfall to quench the thirsty desert sands. From inside the small room came the drone of a newscast, discussing grim matters of falling stocks and corrupt politics. To pass the time and avoid the storm, the two men had decided to play a few hands of cards. The current round: Gin Rummy.

“Does it hurt?” Hanzo asked suddenly. McCree looked up from his hand and quirked a curious brow.

“What do ya mean, partner?”

“Your transformation into the wolf. Does it hurt at all?” he asked again. Jesse pulled a card from the deck, decided to keep it, and flicked a 2 of Spades into the discard line-up as he considered his reply.

“Sorta, but it’s like gettin’ a shot at the doctor’s almost. Hurts like a bitch for a few seconds, then you forget it even happened. After dealin’ with it for so long I hardly notice it anymore.”

Hanzo drew an 8 of Hearts and immediately slipped it in with the discards. He watched as McCree swept it up and placed down a run: 7-8-9.

“I see,” the archer replied. “You know, I’m still having a hard time believing this lycanthropy of yours.”

“Says the man who can shoot magic dragons from his arm,” McCree quipped with a smirk.

“They are not ‘magic’. They are guardian spirits that protect my family. It is an honor to be recognized by them as one of their masters.” Hanzo calmly took his turn and watched to see what his opponent would play next. McCree drew another card, didn’t fancy it, and slipped it in with the other discards.

“Ah, pardon me then. Make that magic _ghost_ dragons.” The cowboy kicked his feet up onto an empty chair beside him. Hanzo felt the beasts residing in his tattoo twitch. However, they seemed more amused than aggravated by the teasing.

Hanzo quietly drew a card and placed down a trio of 9s. Then he discarded a 3 of Clubs to end his turn.

“Does anyone else know about your condition?”

“Besides you, Deadlock, and a few higher-ups from ol’ Overwatch, not a soul.” McCree swooped up two cards from the discard pile, played three Jacks in a run, and got rid of another Spade. Hanzo watched the other man’s warm brown eyes shift towards the window. “Damn, sure is rainin’ cats and dogs out there.”

“Yes. I’m surprised,” the archer replied. “We may have to stay here for one more day than planned. There might be some flooding.”

“Fine by me. I like this place. Great cigar shack down the street.” Jesse chuckled as he drew another card.

The jokes and small-talk eventually trickled out. The two men began to take their turns in silence. The news anchor continued to read out bulletins about Omnic invasions in Russia, recent Vishkar improvements in Brazil, predictions regarding the next occurrence of Omnic activity near the Korean peninsula. Hanzo watched McCree chew at his bottom lip as he considered his next move, his tell-tale incisors poking out to glimmer in the soft lamplight. Suddenly his chocolate eyes seemed to flash with some form of realization. He discarded to end his turn and looked back at the man across from him, wearing one of his signature grins.  
  
“So Hanzo, I was lookin’ at the route you had planned out on the map earlier,” he began coyly. The archer raised a brow at him. Just what was he up to?  
  
“Yes, what about it?”  
  
McCree took his time, leaning back into his chair and reshuffling his hand. His devilish smirk never faltered; he was _definitely_ up to something.  
  
“Well, I just happened to notice we’d be passing right by a little town called Las Vegas,” he said. “Y’ever been?”

“No,” Hanzo deadpanned, drawing a new card into his hand. “McCree, if you are trying to convince me to take a detour--”

“Aw, come on, Han!” Jesse spoke with a little bit of a laugh. “Everybody’s gotta go to Vegas at least _once_ in their life. You’ll have fun, I’ll show ya all the hot spots.”

“I’d rather not risk losing my entire savings to a slot machine,” the archer replied. Jesse gave a little pout across the table.

“Who says you have to gamble? There’s tons more to see. There’s Fremont Street with the performers, the lights, ol’ Hoover Dam, not to mention the best damn booze in the whole wide world. One night, Hanzo. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Hanzo glanced back up and was met with Jesse’s big brown puppy-dog eyes. The archer studied his features for a moment, weighing his options back and forth in his head. Genji called to him from the back of his mind: _go on and do something._ After a few long seconds of silence, he surrendered a sigh.  
  
“One night,” Hanzo conceded at last. The cowboy’s face lit up with excitement.

“Trust me, partner, you won’t be disappointed. I’ll make sure it’s the best damn night of your life. I promise!” McCree said as he settled back into studying his next move. A small chuckle escaped him as a he placed down another run: Ace-2-3-4. “Though don’t feel too sore if I trump ya at cards over there, alright?”

Hanzo looked at him, then at his cards, then back towards the discard pile. In one fluent motion he swept up the entire set of discards before placing down a trio of 4s, a run of 5-6-7, a full set of Kings, another run of Ten-Jack-Queen, and finished by adding another lone 5 to Jesse’s previous move. He leaned back in his chair, holding up his hands to reveal that they were empty.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” the archer smirked. McCree blinked and leaned forward in his chair, tilting back his hat in disbelief. After studying the cards spread about the table with scrutiny, he slouched back into his seat with another small pout.

“Well,” he muttered, “I’ll be damned.”

\--

They set out for Vegas some days later with clear weather. The hike was only about two hours from their previous hideout, and only thirty minutes east from Hanzo’s original route. Along the way they passed through the footpath across historic Hoover Dam. Overhead the highway express lane whizzed on past, cars gliding easily over the ravine on a newer, less historic bridge. McCree laughed as he shared another story about how Deadlock once tried to extort the place for some free water pipelines; even with the gang’s little secret, the negotiations didn’t last long. Hanzo listened as he daydreamed, watching powerful spouts of water cascade down into the river far below.

They arrived in Las Vegas proper sometime mid-afternoon. The break in the weather allowed for sunshine and clear skies, one final remnant of the dying Nevada summer. The city itself had remained relatively untouched by the rough years of the original Crisis. In fact, some would argue it even boomed in those years, with many people coming from all over to drown their troubles in gambling and booze. Both McCree and Hanzo were dressed in casual clothes as they made their way into the heart of the city, trying to avoid unwanted attention. The streets were crowded by humans and omnics alike, some tourists, others obvious regulars, with the occasional beggar stationed on a corner. A crowd this large was one that Hanzo had purposefully been trying to avoid the past years, but McCree cheerfully dragged him along as they weaved easily through the foot traffic. The cowboy seemed at home in a place as wild and unpredictable as this.

They hit the usual tourist spots first; all the main strip hotels and the prime photo spots, the ornate fountains and landmark imitations. Then they passed through Fremont Street and watched the performers under the shade. The talents ranged from jugglers to magicians to freak shows, some even good enough to warrant a tip. They stopped by a small museum full of odd curios and snapshots of Vegas throughout the years. On their way back towards Main Street they passed by the infamous neon cowboy sign; McCree stopped and took a selfie with it in the background.

Soon the sun began to set, and eventually Jesse led the archer off the main strip to a little place called _The Cat’s Cradle_. Stuck somewhere in-between regular and ritzy, the building had been built back in the 2020s, and it was themed after the decade a hundred years before it. Vintage jukeboxes played tunes reminiscent of gangsters and speakeasies, the dim lights showcasing the deep reds and blacks and yellows around the lounge. The omnic attendants all wore pinstripe suits or flapper dresses, and the walls were decorated with antiques and other memorabilia. An effective time capsule for a part of history almost a hundred and fifty years in the past.

A jazzy saxophone piece kicked on just as the two entered the hotel. They paid for a room, dropped off their bags, and changed into some nicer sets of clothing before heading back downstairs. McCree unexpectedly nudged an elbow into Hanzo’s arm as they rode the elevator.

“So, how you likin’ Vegas so far? Everything you ever dreamed of and more?” he asked.

“I will admit, I’m enjoying it more than I expected to.” The archer replied. In all honesty, he had been expecting it to be a complete waste of time, but something about Jesse’s enthusiasm had drawn him in. A feeling almost like nostalgia, and allowed him to enjoy the quick stops and the busy people. The cowboy’s eyes brightened at his response, and he flashed a toothy grin in return.

“Well just you wait, this hasn’t even been half of it.”

They stopped briefly at the Cradle’s casino wing. Hanzo sat and watched with a drink in hand as McCree tried his luck at some slots. The brassy jazz of the saxophone had transitioned into a smoother swing of a piano in double time. After a while the cowboy walked away with slightly more money in his pocket. He dragged Hanzo up the elevator to what appeared to be some form of restaurant and lounge. Instead of music piped in through speakers and jukeboxes, a live band played jazz on a small stage. Some couples danced together nearby, while other groups sat and mingled in booths or at the bar. A large glass window let them know that the sun had fully set by now. Another door led out to a balcony to view the Vegas Strip and its skyline.

The two sat down at an open booth and ordered dinner. Hanzo reached into his wallet to double-check he still had enough to pay the bill. Suddenly, Jesse stopped him.

“Lemme get it,” he offered. The archer’s eyes snapped up to meet his.

“That is not necessary.”

“Naw, I mean it. Consider it my little thank-you for lettin’ me tag along with you. I’m the one who dragged ya here, anyways. Lemme get it for ya, Hanzo.”

The archer sat frozen in his seat for a moment, staring back at McCree’s kind face. Then he tucked the wallet back into his pocket.

“Very well,” he agreed. “...That is very thoughtful of you, McCree.”

Soon dinner arrived, and the two partook in a few drinks alongside it. The table was fairly silent; any small talk they had to share had already been said during the past weeks. Eventually a waitress came by to pick up their plates, and Jesse ordered another round of drinks. The band switched from mellow dining tune to an upbeat swing number. The cowboy stood up and asked if Hanzo would like to dance. The other man politely refused, and he watched as McCree made his way over to the stage without him.

Hanzo finished his drink and got up from his seat, heading the opposite direction from the dance floor towards the balcony. The evening air was cool and crisp against his skin. Before him lay the Vegas Strip. The night around him was lit up by neon signs and flashing colors, highlighting skyscrapers both old and modern. Somewhere below him an express tram wisped by in a hyper lane. From the city came a mix of music and car horns. Everything came together in his mind as one image: definitely and irrefutably Las Vegas.

“Gorgeous view from here, ain’t it?” McCree’s voice sounded behind him. Hanzo peered over his shoulder to see the other man approach him. Jesse leaned on the railing beside him and tipped back his hat, the bright city lights reflecting in his eyes.

“Dancing didn’t suit you?” Hanzo asked. McCree gave a bit of a chuckle, swirling his new glass of moonshine around in his hand.

“Not as fun without a partner,” he replied, taking a sip. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and hiccuped; he looked a bit tipsy.

“Perhaps that should be your last for tonight,” the archer warned. McCree eyed the glass suspiciously.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. Any more and I’d probably find myself on my ass.” The man gave a small chuckle and turned his attention back to the cityscape. After a short pause, he spoke again.

“Hey uh, Han.” Jesse reached his robotic hand up to awkwardly scratch at the back of his neck. “What I said earlier, I really am thankful you’re keepin’ me around. I know I’m probably not the easiest guy to live with, for multiple reasons, but uh…” he trailed off briefly, fidgeting with the glass in his hand. “Just, y’know. Thanks.”

“You are most welcome,” Hanzo replied. “And I must thank you for being willing to assist me in the first place. You _did_ save my life, after all.”

They stood almost shoulder to shoulder now. From the lounge drifted a slow saxophone solo, languid and soothing. The archer was beginning to feel the weight of his own drinking press down against his head. He yawned, thoughts drifting to the day spent exploring the city and its odd curiosities. His eyes fell back to the lights in the distance, bright and welcoming.

“It really is a pretty sight,” Hanzo said absently, mostly to himself. Jesse slid an inch closer to him on the railing.

“I can think of something prettier,” he replied. The archer glanced at him and raised a curious brow. McCree only grinned back at him, brown eyes warm and pleasant. Hanzo felt his face flush; although, that may have just been the cold bite of the evening breeze.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked. McCree only chuckled.

“Just an observation,” the cowboy teased. The wind picked up slightly, and both men instinctively leaned into each other at the sudden chill. When it passed they remained shoulder to shoulder for a moment, then both of them looked at each other and awkwardly separated.

“Sorry,” McCree mumbled, avoiding the other man’s eyes. “Uh, perhaps it’s best if we head back in--”

Suddenly Hanzo reached up and gave Jesse a kiss, an action based entirely on impulse. It was a simple press on the lips, nothing more. The taste of moonshine was still present on the cowboy’s mouth. The archer lingered for a moment, but as quickly as it had started, he pulled away abruptly. McCree stood with his eyes wide, practically dazed. Hanzo looked away, ashamed.

“Forgive me.” His words were barely audible over the wind. “I was not thinking.”

The archer waited for the man’s response, bracing himself for anger or resentment. But to his surprise, Jesse laughed. Hanzo felt a warm hand take his own. He looked up and was met with a gentle smile. McCree’s brown eyes were cheerful and inviting.

“If you wanted a kiss, Han, you could’ve just asked.” With that, the cowboy kissed him back. Hanzo tasted the alcohol again; the unusual feeling had wormed its way back into his chest. He heard Genji cheer in the back of his mind: _about damn time._

Their kiss lasted longer this time, a few extra seconds, before Hanzo gently pushed the other man away.

“Are you sure?” he asked shyly.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sure about... _this_?” the archer gestured at the small space between them. “Whatever _this_ is?”

McCree smiled again and leaned in close, their noses mere inches from touching. “Darlin’, I think I’ve been sure about this ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

Suddenly something in Hanzo clicked. Whether it was Jesse’s words, or the nickname, or his devilishly handsome smile in that nice button-up shirt, or perhaps a mix of all three, it made their time together on the balcony seem real. There was no longer the worry of this all being a dream or some form of cruel vision. McCree was here, and McCree wanted him, and most importantly, he wanted McCree back.

Hanzo wrapped his arms around the other man’s neck and pulled him back into another meeting of their lips. Jesse was happy to oblige, still mindful not to spill what was left of his drink. They remained that way for quite some time, drifting with the melodies of the lounge music, lost in each other and the gentle sway of the Vegas lights.

\--

Mr. Akiyama was not a man who liked to waste time.

He had been sitting in the dusty, smoke-filled office for exactly twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, according to his trusted silver pocket watch. Irritably he rubbed a thumb across the engraving of twin dragons emblazoned on the back of it; the symbol of his employers, and a not so subtle reminder of his purpose here in America. He counted as the seconds hand of his watch reached thirteen minutes exactly. He vowed to storm out and leave his business proposal behind if the man he was waiting for did not appear by fifteen.

Finally, the wooden door across from him creaked open, and a tall man in a dark suit leisurely strode into the room. Mr. Akiyama firmly clicked his pocket watch shut and tucked it back into the lapel of his own. Final time: thirteen minutes, fifty-eight seconds.  
  
“Mighty sorry about the wait, Mr. Akiyama. Usually I make it a point not to be so rude to my guests,” the man spoke with an accent somewhere from the deep south as he sat down in the padded chair on the opposite side of the desk. He removed his black Stetson from his head and let it rest on the table, revealing neatly-combed blond hair and a mustache in the low lamplight. “I see my men had enough wits to give you coffee.”

Mr. Akiyama sourly eyed the mug of untouched cold coffee off to his left. Then he moved to open the small briefcase in his lap.

“Mr. Bordeaux, correct?” he asked. He continued before the other man could give an answer. “As you know, we have much to discuss.”

The man across from him laughed. He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a worn deck of cards, beginning to shuffle them in gloved hands. “Please, call me Clarence. Now, it’s about time we got started. How can my men and I be of assistance to you?”

In response, Mr. Akiyama pulled out a manila folder from his briefcase. He took a moment to thumb through it before he revealed a small snapshot. He slid it across the desk to his associate so he could better study the image.

“My employers have been after this man for many years now,” Akiyama began. He watched as Clarence studied the photo. It had been taken at a distance, but the figure in the image was still clear: Japanese, dark hair, a tattoo of two dragons in a sleeve down his arm. “They would like him eliminated. My scouts have recently discovered his location after many years in hiding, but an attempt to intercept him was...compromised. I humbly ask for your assistance in dealing with him.”

Clarence silently considered the snapshot as he continued to shuffle the deck of cards. After some time he looked back up at the man across from him, blue eyes calm with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“I think gettin’ rid of one little man won’t be too difficult on our part,” he said. The cards stopped moving between his hands abruptly. “ _However,_ you seem like an educated man, Mr. Akiyama. Well-versed in these types of negotiations. And as we both know, deals like this don’t come easy. I gotta ask.” He slammed the hand with the deck of cards down on the face of the desk with a loud _snap_. He leaned in close towards Akiyama with a smug grin. “What’s in it for _me?”_

Mr. Akiyama could smell the old cigarettes and whiskey on Clarence’s breath. Unfazed, he turned back to the folder in his hand and pulled out an old piece of parchment. He placed it down next to the snapshot. Clarence examined the old wanted poster, glaring down at the smirking face with the cowboy hat printed on it. Below the mugshot was a caption: _WANTED - JESSE MCCREE - $60,000,000, DEAD OR ALIVE._

“My research suggests you and your gang are quite familiar with this man here,” Akiyama continued calmly. “Our target has been seen with him very often in the past few weeks. It is quite possible they are working together. If your men were to aid us in taking out our target, you would also have an opportunity to deal with this man here -- not to mention a chance to collect his obscenely high bounty.”

Clarence slid the deck of cards back into his lap and started shuffling them again. Dark eyes scoured over the two images before him. He leaned back into the deep padding of his chair and kicked his boots up onto the desk, fiddled with his red bowtie, and took a moment to study a dart board hanging on the wall of his office. Mr. Akiyama had little patience.

“Do we have Deadlock’s cooperation, Mr. Clarence?” he pressed. He heard the cards stop. The man across from him sat up slightly in his chair. A shadow crossed over part of his face; for a moment, Mr. Akiyama swore he witnessed the other man’s eyes flash red.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Akiyama.” Clarence’s lips curled up into a sinister grin, revealing two sharp, golden incisors hanging down from his upper row of teeth. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Fun fact: Clarence is loosely based off of McCree's Gambler skin. Do with that info what you will.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how late this is! This college term has been busier than I thought it would be, jeez.
> 
> But hooray, chapter 7 is finally here! We're close to the end here, people. I wonder what's gonna happen...

Hanzo woke the next morning when slivers of pale sunlight crept across his face. Most of the quaint hotel room was still dark, suggesting it was barely past sunrise. He had made a point to leave the blinds closed, yet a few golden strands persisted on slipping through the gaps to rudely rouse him. The archer groaned; already his head weighed heavy with his hangover. Hanzo rolled over onto his other side, only to unexpectedly bump noses with someone else beside him. Jesse stirred at the other man’s fidgeting, grumbling something unintelligible as he cracked an eye open. Upon seeing Hanzo next to him, the cowboy’s lips curled up into a tired smile. He leaned in, a gentle lethargy draped across his movements, and pressed their foreheads together.

“G’mornin’, darlin’,” he slurred through a yawn. In a flash Hanzo remembered the night before: the lounge, the alcohol, their first kiss on the balcony with the Vegas cityscape as a backdrop. So it hadn’t been just a dream, after all. The archer allowed a playful smirk to slip onto his face. He reached a hand up to card through McCree’s messy chestnut hair.

“With the pet names already?” he teased. He felt one of Jesse’s arms slip around his waist to pull him close.

“What, don’t like it? I got tons more.” McCree paused to give the man next to him a small kiss. “There’s cutie-pie, buttercup, love muffin, puddin’ pop, honeybun, sweetheart, apple of my eye--”

“Oh, stop,” Hanzo said with a small smile. “Darling is perfectly fine.” 

They lay like that for a while, forehead to forehead, hands brushing through hair and eyes gazing sweetly back at each other. Then the archer suddenly remembered his hangover, a dull pain throbbing at his temples. He groaned again and shut his eyes, turning his head further away from the window’s harsh light.

“Something wrong?” McCree asked, brown eyes soft with concern. It was his turn to start running his fingers through his partner’s silky hair.

“Just a headache,” Hanzo mumbled, his words muffled in part by the pillow. One of his hands absently fiddled with an undone button on Jesse’s shirt. The cowboy only chuckled. He barely seemed hungover at all.

“Want me to get you anything?” he asked, sitting up slightly to rest on his elbows. In response, Hanzo grabbed the other man’s collar to yank him back down.

“No,” he demanded. “It is still early. I want to sleep.”

“I thought you were an early bird.” McCree lightly pressed a metal finger against the archer’s nose in a teasing manner. Hanzo flicked it away, but he could not hide the small smile forming on his lips.

“Not today. Now let me rest.”

The cowboy laughed again, low and lazy in the early morning. Jesse seemed to consider something for a moment before Hanzo felt the other man reach for something behind him. Soon something soft fell onto his head. The archer forced a heavy eye open and noticed the brim of McCree’s hat dangling down and across his vision, blocking out the meddling light from the window.

“Much better. Sweet dreams, darlin’,” Jesse whispered. He slipped an arm around Hanzo’s waist again. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

The space between them fell quiet again. Jesse slipped back into sleep rather quickly, his soft snores mixed in with the occasional twitch at a dream. Before long, Hanzo felt himself begin to drift off as well. The archer let his head fall deep into the fabric of his pillow, the weight of the hat atop his head a reassuring one. They dozed long into the late morning, languid and loving in each other’s arms.

\--

They cleaned themselves up and left Las Vegas at noon. Yesterday’s blue sky had been replaced by a solemn grey overcast -- the murky weather of autumn had returned. McCree led Hanzo down through the back alleys, bypassing the busy crowds and navigating their way back into the red desert. Smooth pavement crackled away into sand the further they strayed from the city. The air smelled crisp, a foreboding sign of winter growing ever nearer. Dust swirled in the cold wind, nipping at both their heels as they trekked along an abandoned footpath. 

As always, they moved north. They crossed back over Hoover Dam, returning to the hills and leaving the low valley of Vegas behind. The two men pressed on deeper into the desert, a comfortable silence having nestled between them. Occasionally, Hanzo would steal a glance at his partner, notice how his eyes seemed to sparkle, and return his gaze to the ground as he remembered how they had spent the previous night. He recalled the soft laughter in the low kerosene lamplight, the tugs on his collar as he was dragged into yet another kiss. If he blushed, it was hidden amongst the red that had already been blistered onto his cheeks by the cold. 

Eventually the grey clouds overhead began to darken with the setting sun. The pair found themselves in the middle of a gutted ravine, tall red walls towering over them on either side. During one of their brief rests, the archer pulled out his wrinkled map and studied it the best he could in the failing light.

“The next town is still some distance away, and I doubt we will make it before night fully falls,” he concluded. “I suppose we should stop somewhere sheltered for now and continue in the morning.”

“Not a problem with me. We better make a fire, it’s gonna get cold as hell out here fast,” McCree replied. 

Soon the two were laying side by side on the bare earth, their small fire shielded from the wind by the pillar of rock they had set up behind. Somewhere in the distance a coyote yipped and howled, mourning the moon’s absence in the sky that night. Hanzo used Storm Bow’s travel case as a headrest while he listened to Jesse’s idle whistling. A melancholy tune; Hanzo recognized it as the song on the radio when he had found McCree drunk. The archer kept his gaze locked upwards, pretending to study stars that weren’t even visible. Eventually, the cowboy’s tune tapered off into a heavy silence. Hanzo heard him shift onto his side to better face him.

“You thinkin’ about last night, too?” the cowboy asked suddenly. Hanzo felt his face begin to redden again, and out of instinct he turned his head away.

“Yes,” he admitted. In all honestly, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it. McCree seemed to fidget awkwardly, his robotic hand fretting over the brim of his hat.

“Look, we were both drunk last night, so if I pressured you into anything--”

“No, no! It’s nothing like that! I assure you.” Hanzo quickly rolled over to face the man beside him. “It is simply that I am not used to...an arrangement such as this. I have been on my own for almost ten years now. I have almost forgotten what it is like to...have a companion.”

Jesse visibly relaxed with a small exhale, relieved. The fire crackled as he let his head fall onto his duffel bag, tucking an arm under it for support. 

“Don’t blame you, darlin’. The world can be a lonely place,” he replied sullenly. “I was on my own for a while, too, before you came along. And boy, am I glad you did.” 

Hanzo managed a small smile in return, then he let his eyes fall towards the ground between them. “Have you...been with another before?”

“Naw. Well, nothin’ serious at least,” McCree replied with a small shrug. “Fooled around a lot when I was young, but y’know, none of that ever lasts. How ‘bout you?”

“My father would always present the daughters of his business partners to me, but...I was too shy.”

That made McCree laugh. “You? Shy? Sounds adorable, darlin’.”

Hanzo’s expression softened before he gave the other man’s shoulder a playful shove. “I suppose we’re both new at this, then.”

The pair lay there in silence for a moment, brown eyes gazing deeply into brown. Then Jesse gave a small hum of thought, shifting closer to the man next to him.

“What is it?” Hanzo raised a brow as the cowboy’s nose grew close to his own. 

“Nothin’. Just thought I’d stop and admire how handsome you are.” Jesse’s grin never seemed to leave his face.

“You flatter me.”

“No-sir-ee! I mean it, Hanzo. I’m head over heels for ya.”

The archer stared back in silence, studying how the orange light of the fire danced in his partner’s eyes. A warm feeling swelled in his stomach at the words, and again he felt his cheeks turn pink at the praise. Suddenly, Hanzo propped himself up onto his elbow, feeling himself take in a deep breath.

“McCree.”

Jesse looked concerned at his urgency. “What’s that, darlin’?”

Hanzo steeled himself.

“Jesse, I...I want to tell you that--”

He stopped when McCree suddenly reached over and shoved him back onto the hard ground.

“Get down!”

The archer heard two gunshots rattle out from Peacekeeper overhead. Hanzo whirled around just in time to see two shurikens impale the dirt a mere foot from his head. On the edge of the firelight, dust sprayed where McCree’s shots fell just short of their intended targets. Two grey blurs dipped back into cover and out of sight. Hanzo had only managed to catch a small glimpse of their aggressors, but that was all he needed -- he would recognize that tactical gear anywhere.

“Shimada bastards found us! C’mon, we can’t let them get away!” Jesse was already up on his feet, reloading his revolver as he bolted off into the night after the two assassins. Hanzo shouted after him, ordering him to wait, but the cowboy had already taken off further down the narrow canyon. Hanzo hurried to snatch Storm Bow from its case and make his pursuit, readying an arrow as he plunged into the darkness after Jesse.

His eyes adjusted to the blackness quickly. McCree was still a few meters ahead of him. The two assassins were nowhere in sight, presumably somewhere further along the rocky pathway. They were forced to flow with the ravine’s snakelike path as it carved through the earth. 

Soon, the narrow corridor began to widen. Hanzo stopped and grabbed a sonic arrow from his quiver, firing it over McCree’s head and into the rocks somewhere far in front of them. The dragons stirred within their tattoo; through their eyes, Hanzo caught a glimpse of the assassins’ presence. Two lithe frames, both outlined in red, gliding easily over the terrain as if their feet never touched the ground. The vision faded as the archer caught up to Jesse, who seemed to have lost track of their position.

“This way!” Hanzo tugged on the cowboy’s serape as he sped past, guiding him forward. The clay walls of the canyon continued to span out until the two men were lost to the inky blackness that now enveloped them. Hanzo and McCree both slowed. Everything was suddenly quiet.

Hanzo prepared another arrow and scanned what little he could still see in the low light. A few large rock formations were peppered around the clearing, yet no Shimada assassins anywhere. Beside him, McCree took aim with Peacekeeper again. The cold wind howled as it tore through the ravine, sending another uncomfortable chill straight down the archer’s spine. Something wasn’t right.

Hanzo jolted and nearly dropped his bow when he heard a loud _clunk_ beside him. Half a second later, Jesse spat out a string of curses as he reached for his foot. The other man whirled around to quickly shush him.

“Will you be quiet!?” Hanzo spoke in hushed tones, but the words still had venom.

“Sorry. I nearly tripped and ate shit,” Jesse muttered. In response, Hanzo knelt down and examined what McCree had (quite literally) stumbled upon. He felt rusted metal underneath his fingertips; while it was difficult to see in the poor light, it appeared to be the severed head of an ancient Bastion Crisis unit. The archer immediately stood and examined his surroundings again. What he had previously written off as rock formations, he now realized to be piles upon piles of scrapped Omnics. More Bastion units, larger Omnium tanks... some other parts were so twisted and worn that they were no longer identifiable. The heaps of rusted metal surrounded them at all sides. It was then that Hanzo realized they had discovered some sort of post-Crisis Omnic junkyard. Like the Crisis itself, it had been cast aside and abandoned, left to be buried by the sands of time. 

McCree tipped back his hat as he also looked around. He squinted in the dark, studying the mangled Omnic soldiers that lay defeated around them. 

“Wait a minute…”

Hanzo watched as the cowboy slowly turned in a full circle, taking in the junkyard as a whole, before he suddenly stiffened. He whirled back around and seized his companion by the shoulders, his grip like iron.

“Han, we gotta go. I know where we are. We have to hurry or--”

A flash of white blinded them both as the world seemed to crash down around them. A chorus of violent howls erupted with the sudden light, cutting through the air and flooding the entirety of the junkyard. Hanzo’s eyes quickly adjusted to the floodlights that had clicked on and watched as numerous silhouettes appeared atop the piles of fallen Omnics. The animalistic howling died down into a mix of excited yips and whistles as the shadows fell easily into their assigned positions. The archer heard the ominous sound of multiple firearms reloading at once.

“Well, looky what we have here, boys!” A single voice rose up amongst the chatter of the crowd, silencing most of the commotion instantly. “Seems to me like a couple’a strays found themselves on Deadlock territory. And _what_ do we do with strays?”

The chorus of howls rose up again as Hanzo watched the owner of the voice step into the light. The man tipped back his black stetson with the thumb of a white glove as he sauntered forward. His blue eyes flashed as he grinned, golden incisors glittering in the concentrated light. The archer eyed the old-fashioned Confederate shotgun slung over the man’s shoulder and warily shifted his aim. 

Hanzo heard Jesse growl beside him. 

“The _fuck_ you still doin’ here, Clarence?” the cowboy spat. “Your ass deserves to have been thrown off the gorge years ago.”

The blond apparently named Clarence jumped up onto the head of a deceased Omnium tank and reached for his shotgun, a smirk curling onto his lips. 

“Now now, no need to get so testy so soon, McCree,” Clarence taunted with the waggle of his finger. “Deadlock’s _my_ little operation now, in case you didn’t notice. In fact, I should be askin’ you and Shimada down why you’re here on Deadlock property.”

He paused to pump the action trigger on his shotgun, the safety coming off with an audible click. “And, last time I checked, _you_ ain't Deadlock anymore.”

A sinister chuckle rumbled in Clarence’s chest. The rest of the Deadlock shadows started to shift anxiously, their hungry trigger fingers itching for blood. Hanzo knew they were both good as dead -- that is, unless they acted _now._

In a flash the archer took aim and fired his arrow into the nearest floodlight. The fixture crackled with a flurry of sparks, sending two Deadlock members crumpling to the ground for cover. Hanzo grabbed Jesse’s hand and took off running back the way they came, utilizing any time the small distraction had granted them. 

Behind them, Clarence gave a sharp whistle. “Don’t just _stand_ there, you good-fer-nothin’ mutts! Fuckin’ _shoot ‘em!”_

The two ducked behind the mangled body of a Bastion unit just as heavy gunfire started after them. Jesse tugged on the brim of his hat, shielding his eyes from the harsh neon floodlights as he peered around their minimal cover. Hanzo harshly tugged him down by the back of his serape as another wave of gunfire started.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were so close to gang territory?!” Hanzo snapped as he released his grip.

“It’s been a while!” Jesse shouted right back. Both men ducked again when the rain of bullets tore off the Bastion unit’s flimsy head above them. “Shit, okay, nevermind. Any other bright ideas, darlin’?”

“Working on it.” Hanzo reached back for another arrow as he spotted four shapes moving to flank them. He slid a thumb down the arrow’s shaft until he found and pressed a hidden switch. The arrowhead instantly clicked apart into five smaller segments as the archer took aim and fired into the distant rubble. The arrow split into five smaller bolts and bounced upwards, nailing the group of Deadlock lackeys up through the sensitive flesh of the lower chin. The four gang members dropped dead in a heap a moment later. 

Three more men fell as Jesse poked his head out from behind their cover and fired. He ducked back down immediately after seeing the bullets hit their marks, narrowly avoiding Deadlock’s returning fire. Bullets continued to noisily ricochet off of the Bastion unit’s armor. They were pinned down.

“Shit.” Jesse hissed under his breath and reached for a flashbang on his belt. He tossed it and shielded his eyes just as two gang members came whirling around a second fallen Omnic. Hanzo finished them off quickly with another two shots to the chest. 

“We have to move or we’re as good as dead!” The archer cried above the noise of the battlefield. Just then, something clattered down into the small space between them. The pair looked down and watched the dirty orange screen of a pulse grenade as it counted down from 3. 

The explosive destroyed the base of the nearest junk pile, the sound of rusted steel groaning angrily with new flames as the whole mess toppled over. Hanzo was met with a mouthful of sand as he hit the ground face-first. The palm of his gloveless hand was scraped and bleeding from the rough landing, but miraculously he had been able to dodge out of the way of the blunt of the grenade’s force in time.

Hanzo spat out the bitter tastes of dirt and copper in his mouth as he stood up. Behind him was a new pile of burning metal, blocking the way to his previous position. He was unsure if Jesse had been able to move in time.

“McCree! Jesse!” the archer shouted over the low roar of the flames. He did not have time to wait for a reply -- eerie howls reached his ears, the sounds fast approaching. Hanzo picked Storm Bow off the ground from where it had fallen and broke into a sprint. 

Across the junkyard came the rumble of two more explosives, going off in quick succession to one another. Three scrawny figures dropped down from their hiding places in front of Hanzo, forcing the archer to slide to a stop. The gang members’ faces were all obscured by hats and bandanas as the three of them took aim with their pistols. 

Deadlock was quick to draw, but Hanzo was quicker. He sent an arrow into one crony’s shoulder blade and rushed to disarm the second one. The gang member cried out as the archer swiftly broke his wrist with a sharp twist of his arm. The third member fired, but accidentally shot a full clip into his comrade’s chest as Hanzo used him as a shield. The archer kicked the limp body into the final Deadlock goon, knocking him off balance long enough for Hanzo to finish him with a swift arrow to the forehead.

He kept running. Behind him, Hanzo heard more shouts and commands as Deadlock tried to track him down. Still no sign of Jesse after the grenade sent their hiding place crashing down on top of them. He wanted to call out to him, yell his name and pray for an answer, but his rational side knew it would give away his position. An image came to Hanzo’s mind: Jesse’s body crushed under literal tons of rusted steel, his bronze skin ripped from his bones and burned away by a point-blank explosion. 

He willed the thought away. No. Jesse was not dead. Not yet.

Hanzo came upon a dead end and was forced to scale his way atop another tall pile of fallen Omnics. He paused at the top and overlooked the new clearing below him. More Deadlock members buzzed in and out of the spotlights in their search, barking orders at each other as they scrambled to new assignments and positions. Once teams were formed, the majority of Deadlock split up to patrol the other sectors of the junkyard, leaving a six-man pack still stationed in the clearing. 

A swath of red caught Hanzo’s eye as a figure stepped out of cover across the clearing. Jesse stood tall with his shoulders back, his right hand hovering close to Peacekeeper in its holster. The Deadlock cronies had yet to notice him as he calmly walked further out into the open. Hanzo almost called out to him, to tell him to get back into cover as the gang members finally turned and noticed Jesse. The cowboy stopped in front of a floodlight, casting a long shadow as the golden lamp glowed behind his silhouette like a halo.

_“It’s high noon.”_

Jesse’s southern drawl rose above the Deadlock chatter before Peacekeeper fired in rapid succession. The six men dropped dead instantly as McCree spun Peacekeeper over his fingers and back into its holster on his belt. Hanzo remained crouched where he was for another moment, his brain still trying to process exactly what had just happened. He knew from his numerous stories that Jesse was an expert marksman, but the feat he had just witnessed was at a level that Hanzo had never seen before. He was impressed.

A fresh gunshot tore through the air as Jesse suddenly fell to his knees. Behind him, a Deadlock patrol stepped into view. One recruit’s gun was still smoking at the barrel.

“Jesse!” Hanzo’s voice strained over the howling wind. A new rage burned in his chest as the five-man patrol encircled the cowboy, kicking him back over when he attempted to stand. The archer reached for an arrow, the roars of his dragons filling his ears, sharing their master’s anger. The lines of blue ink down Hanzo’s arm flashed to life as the archer took aim and fired.

The arrow soared a few meters down the slope of the junk pile before it erupted with a dazzling light. The twin Shimada dragons raced forward with a deafening roar, spiraling down towards where Deadlock currently had Jesse. The dragons were upon them before they knew it; Hanzo heard their startled screams as the dragons’ raw power reduced their bodies to brittle ash. When their work was done, the two spirits unwound from their dance and snaked into the ground, disappearing from sight. The archer felt them return to him a few moments later. 

Jesse lay still on the ground across the clearing, untouched by the dragons’ wrath. In an instant Hanzo descended from his perch and took off sprinting. A pool of blood had already formed at the other man’s waist, perhaps if he could stop the bleeding in time--

Hanzo cried out and fell to the cold earth when a searing pain tore into his right thigh. He rolled onto his back and looked down to his leg, finding his skin torn and peppered with sharp grains of buckshot. Clarence pumped his Confederate shotgun and slowly sauntered forward. He reached up and removed the cigarette from between his lips, letting a waft of smoke escape as he knelt down a little ways from the fallen archer.

“Pretty fancy trick you got there, Shimada.” Clarence showed off his golden fangs with another sinister smirk. “No wonder those bastards want you strung up so bad. Would’ve sent me runnin’ if I was just some nobody. But shame for you, because I ain’t no nobody.”

Hanzo grit his teeth when Clarence jammed the butt of his lit cigarette into the already-damaged skin of his thigh. He refused to cry out in pain and give the other man any sick satisfaction. The archer painfully forced his body to sit up and tried to wrap his fingers around Storm Bow, his weapon just out of reach. Clarence stood up and took a few steps back. He watched Hanzo struggle for a moment and laughed, dropping his shotgun at his feet.

“So, you like tricks, Shimada?” the Deadlock leader asked. Hanzo saw his blue eyes flash red under the shadow of his hat. “How’s about I show you mine?”

Clarence chuckled under his breath for a moment, but otherwise stood still. Hanzo’s fingers ghosted over Storm Bow’s grip, the buckshot shifting uncomfortably in his muscle and hurting him with every strained movement. Suddenly, Clarence began to _change._ A low growl rumbled in his throat as his bones shifted, crackling and snapping into new positions as his body began to contort. The suit stretched as his muscles rapidly developed until finally they tore free from the confines of the fabric. Hanzo stared back in horror as the man before him doubled in size, body now covered in a thick coat of dirty blond fur. His hat and the shreds of his clothes fluttered to the ground as the beast howled towards the moonless sky. There stood Clarence in his new monstrous form, standing tall over his prey on his two hind legs. He gazed down at the archer hungrily, a small glimmer of madness in the wolf’s blood-red eyes.

Through his growing panic, Hanzo managed to finally grasp Storm Bow and pull it towards him. He sat up and fired an arrow, then a second, then a third. They all struck Clarence in the center of his chest as he began to lumber forwards, but the beast seemed to smirk as he pulled the shafts from his wounds without a second thought. Hanzo tried to scramble backwards as fast as he could with his injured leg, but he soon found his back pressed flat against the armor of an Omnium tank. Clarence drew close with ground-shaking footfalls, reeling back an arm in preparation to strike down his prey. Hanzo saw his massive claws glimmer in the floodlight and knew death was about to follow.

A flash of brown came across his vision as the shape tackled Clarence to the ground. The red serape flapped in the wind as Jesse growled, the gunshot wound in his lower back still evident even in wolf form. He bit into the flesh of the Deadlock leader’s shoulder and began to tear at it. Clarence gave a startled whine at the sudden rush of pain before he shoved Jesse off of him with a harsh smack of his arm. The smaller of the two landed clumsily but still on his feet. It was not long before the two beasts were at each other’s throats again.

Hanzo knew he had to move, and fast. Using Storm Bow as a makeshift crutch, the archer forced himself to stand despite the searing pain in his thigh. He awkwardly scaled the shallow side of the Omnium tank and scrambled for higher cover. Jesse was suddenly slammed into the base of the tank below him, and the force was enough to knock Hanzo off of his feet. Once again he desperately struggled for a solid grip as he slowly slid towards the edge of the massive tank. He found a foothold and hauled himself back up towards the flat top, steadying himself before whirling around to watch the furious struggle below him.

Clarence still had McCree pressed up against the base of the Omnium tank. The smaller werewolf retaliated by raking the claws of his hind legs down the other wolf’s abdomen. Clarence suddenly heaved Jesse over his shoulder and threw him snout-first into the ground, pinning him by his neck under the weight of his foot. Desperately Jesse thrashed and writhed under the other wolf’s weight, snarling angrily before Clarence bent down and slashed a row of claws down his opponent's flank. McCree’s snarling only grew louder as he finally broke free from Clarence's pin. His jaws snapped down on the bipedal werewolf’s ankle, bringing Clarence down to his level as he collapsed with a pained howl.

Hanzo had to do something. He refused to let Jesse struggle like this alone. Scanning his surroundings, the archer soon noticed the wreck of a larger Bastion variant haphazardly strewn across the top of the tank beside him. Hanzo wedged himself into the tiny space between the Omnic and the rest of the junk pile, squaring his shoulders as he began to push. Below him, the sounds of Clarence and Jesse’s brawl continued. The archer heard the all-too-familiar sound of claws tearing into more wet flesh, but could not tell who had been on the receiving end of the wound.

Vicious snarls continued to ring in his ears as Hanzo tried to push the Omnic again, his injured leg and aching muscles begging him to stop. Eventually, he felt the large Bastion wreck begin to shift against the force, but it was still not enough. He grabbed Storm Bow and wedged it underneath the rusted heap of armor and pressed down with his full weight. Just before he thought the bow would snap, the Bastion unit creaked under its own weight and toppled over. At last it began to slip down the curved side of the Omnium tank, slowly building speed as it slid towards the edge.

On the ground, McCree had Clarence on his back, struggling to get a clear bite at his windpipe. The larger beast resisted by gripping Jesse’s jaw and keeping it pried it open. Clarence eventually worked his hind legs under his opponent and kicked outwards as hard as he could. Jesse went careening through the air a considerable distance, landing roughly on his side some long seconds later. Clarence stood up on his hind legs again and growled menacingly, unaware of the sound of creaking metal just above his head. The large-scale Bastion unit finally reached the edge of the tank and toppled over, falling a meter or two before landing directly where Clarence stood. The ground shook as the Bastion unit's impact with the earth flung a cloud of red-brown sand high into the air. Hanzo shielded his face as the dust slowly settled, peering over the edge and down at where the Omnic had fallen. A large ring of blood had already began to pool out from underneath all the metal, and a clawed hand was visible out from under the side of the wreckage, dangling uselessly.

With Clarence dead, Hanzo let out a sigh of relief. He carefully maneuvered his way back down the Omnium tank and the rest of the junk pile. On level ground, Jesse was on his feet again, his growl persisting as he stared down the bloody wreckage where his opponent now lay defeated. Hanzo limped toward him, offering a gentle hand to calm him.

“Jesse, it’s alright. He’s dead.” the archer reached to stroke the wolf behind the ears, but McCree responded by whirling on him, his ears folded back. Blood still dribbled from the wound down the beast’s flank as his golden eyes flashed with non-recognition. Jesse started stalking towards Hanzo carefully, hungrily, with the full intent to kill.

“Jesse? Jesse, it’s me. What’s going--” Hanzo stopped himself from asking the question when he realized the answer. His memory jumped back to McCree’s room in the inn when the cowboy had first revealed his secret, how Jesse spoke grimly of Deadlock and of repercussions:

_If you ain’t careful, use it one too many times in a week, bite one too many people, you are_ gone. _No way you’re comin’ back from that.”_

Hanzo’s heart sank as he recalled the words. His already-weak knees threatened to give out from under him. Jesse crouched down ready to pounce, sharp teeth glistening in the concentrated floodlight. 

“Jesse... Jesse, no, you can’t be--” 

This time the archer was cut off when Jesse tackled him. White fangs snapped for Hanzo’s neck but instead bit down against the shaft of Storm Bow. Golden eyes stared forward absently, dumbly, as the wolf sought nothing but blood. Hanzo pushed back against the beast’s persistent maw, thick strands of saliva dribbling down the grooves of the bow and onto his face.

“Jesse, _please!_ It’s me! It’s Hanzo! Please, listen to me!” Hanzo begged. The golden eyes gave way to no response. The wolf continued to gnaw on the sturdy metal of Storm Bow’s frame, heavy paws on either side of the archer’s head. In a final effort, Hanzo heaved his full strength upward and rolled McCree off of him, slamming the wolf into the ground with the bow still loosely dangling around his neck. Hanzo scrambled away and Jesse struggled to stand, his injuries finally starting to catch up with him. The wolf wobbled onto all fours and locked eyes with the archer, a primal anger hidden within the yellow gaze as he attempted to stalk forward again. Suddenly, his stance faltered, and McCree fell flat onto his side, unconsciousness quickly taking him as the bleeding on his side wound began to slow.

Hanzo struggled to catch his breath as he stared where the wolf had fallen for a long while. He rolled forward onto his knees, eyes fixated forward yet unfocused all at once. The junkyard was unnaturally silent; the rest of Deadlock had likely fled upon realizing their leader was dead. The only sound was the cold autumn wind twisted throughout the ravine, hollow, empty and broken. The darkness closed in around Hanzo as he buried his face into his fists, painfully aware that he was now once again truly, utterly, inarguably alone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is guys, we reached the end! Thanks again to all the lovely people who have stuck with this story from chapter 1. The kudos and comments were always a big motivator.
> 
> Prepare your tissues, folks. This chapter's going to be a doozy.

The winter sky at dawn was pale pink and made hazy by fog. The sun had yet to crown above the far-off horizon, the vibrant red sands of the desert toned down to a muddled brown in the dim light. As always, the wind persisted, a gentle but icy breeze mulling along in the low grooves of the canyon. The early morning was quiet, almost picturesque. The only sound was the occasional cry of a circling cactus owl, low and lonely, as it scanned the desert floor for any last-minute scraps.

Hanzo limped through the ravine, his right foot dragging and scraping along in the dirt. The dull pains of the buckshot wound still weighed down on his muscles, a heavy ache that left him slow and vulnerable. In both hands he carried grocery bags from the nearest town, a small out-of-the-way place a few miles north. He had abandoned his traditional _kyudo-gi_ for dusty jeans and an insulated jacket, the nights in the open desert becoming much too cold for his liking. Dark bags had returned under his eyes; the frequent trips to town and the threat of Deadlock returning left him little opportunity to sleep. The frayed wool of Jesse’s serape caught on the wind and flapped on his shoulders, shielding him from the dust and the grit swirling around him as he stumbled his way back to the junkyard.

The archer found his makeshift camp just as he had left it: a ratty bedroll, bags of supplies shoved haphazardly aside, a barbed wire line of drying laundry, and a fire pit built from scrap residing at the center. Hanzo limped his way to his bedroll and stiffly sat down, taking a moment to check the bandages around his thigh before he began to sort through the bags from town. He miserably tugged on the gauze again, annoyed by how uncomfortable it was. Removing the buckshot pellets had been as tedious as it had been painful, but at least the wound was finally beginning to heal in the two weeks since the ambush.

It took the archer a moment to register the sounds of metallic scratching nearby. Hanzo stood again, frustrated that he almost stumbled, before picking up one of the grocery bags and following the noise. Not far from his camp lay a rusted shipping container, half-buried under another pile of Omnic Crisis scrap. A makeshift gate constructed from steel bars and more barbed wire had been fastened onto it by Deadlock. Next to the gang’s skull emblem along the side of the container was a message in spray paint: “BEWARE OF DOG”. The rhythmic scratching grew louder as Hanzo approached and pulled at the bars. The heavy gate swung open with a long creaking noise before the archer stepped inside. He was mindful to shut it behind him immediately.

Hunched over at the far end of the container was Jesse, mindlessly clawing white ridges into the metal wall opposite of the gate. Hanzo heard the scratching stop suddenly, the shoulders of the man in front of him going rigid. All of a sudden, McCree whirled around and charged at him, only to be stopped in his tracks by the steel collar that chained him to the wall. He persisted forward nonetheless, keeping the thick chain leash taut as he examined Hanzo with watchful eyes and a threatening growl.

Jesse’s body had shifted out of his wolf form some days after the incident with Clarence, but his current shape was far from fully human. Wolf-like ears poked out from the sides of his head through his tussled hair, which had grown a few inches longer practically overnight. Fangs too big for his mouth poked out from between his lips and curled the left half of his face into a persistent snarl. Hanzo had attempted to dress him in a spare change of clothes from the cowboy’s belongings, but the fabric had been stretched out and torn in a variety of places. Golden eyes remained fixated on the archer, waiting for him to move first.

“Good morning, Jesse,” Hanzo was polite, speaking slowly as he approached the other man with visible hesitance. The werewolf’s low growling reverberated around the makeshift kennel as the other man reached into the bag of groceries he had brought with him. He pulled out a packet of fresh tenderloin, unwrapped it, and tossed it down at Jesse’s feet. “I brought breakfast.”

Jesse dove town and snatched up the meat instantly. Hanzo stood in silence and watched as the man tore the offering apart, greedily swallowing down large chunks and letting the blood of the fresh tenderloin dribble down his beard. McCree was finished within seconds, and he turned to the archer again, the golden eyes demanding more.

“That’s all I have.” The archer showed the palms of his gloved hands to reinforce the fact, and at that, Jesse gave a low-pitched whine. A somewhat-sentient response.

Hanzo’s eyes flicked towards a spot of red showing through a tear in Jesse’s shirt. Clarence and his dogs had done their fair share of damage to McCree’s abdomen, and the archer had struggled  to wind some bandages around the man’s torso after he had shifted back into this hybrid state. His thrashing and pulling against the chain must have upset the wound and started the bleeding again. With a long sigh, the archer reached back into his groceries and pulled out his first aid kit. He took a few tentative steps in McCree’s direction, moving painstakingly slow as he knelt down next to him. Jesse’s wolf-like ears stood erect, growling at the new invasion of space.

“Jesse, let me see.” Hanzo held out a palm to show he meant no harm, and in the usual respose, McCree tried to snap his jaws down around the man’s fingers. Expecting this, the archer quickly moved his hand and grabbed Jesse by the collar when he lunged forward, getting a solid enough grip on him to pin him flat against the floor on his stomach. Jesse snarled in protest, but Hanzo kept his weight on top of him as he pushed the other man’s shirt up to better examine the bandages. It was an awkward struggle, but slowly Hanzo managed to remove the older wrappings. Soon he redressed the deep gashes down Jesse’s abdomen before replacing the bandages with fresh ones. The entire time, McCree threw a fit, the steel claws of his prosthetic scraping against the floor as he resisted, craning his neck in an attempt to sink his fangs into Hanzo whenever a part of him grew close enough.

“Quit. I am trying to help you.” Hanzo would retaliate by gently-but-firmly pressing on the back of McCree’s neck before returning to his work. Eventually, Jesse got lucky: sharp teeth snapped down around Hanzo’s palm while he was re-bandaging the wound, causing the archer to yelp and drop what he was doing. He bit his tongue to keep himself from lashing out, calmly returning to helping McCree instead. When he was done, he quickly stood and darted towards the other end of the container. Jesse chased after him, pulling the chain taut like before.

Hanzo took a moment to treat his own wound, silently noting that both his forearms were now wrapped in the white gauze from bite wounds. He packed up his things and turned towards Jesse again. The golden eyes were still fixated on him, hunting him, killing him, _hating_ him.

“I hope your new bandages help you feel better.” Hanzo’s tone was gentle, patient, yet strained by the exhaustion of politeness nonetheless. “I will be back with lunch and meditation later this afternoon. I will keep the door open for you, in case you want some sunlight.”

No response. Hanzo turned and left the front hatch of the shipping container half ajar as promised. Genji was outside waiting to greet him, leaning against the side of the small prison with his arms folded calmly over his chest. He said nothing, only looking at the elder brother with sad, concerned eyes. Hanzo stared back for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh.

“Just...not now, Genji. Leave me be.” With that, the archer retreated back towards his camp, pulling the comforts of the serape tighter around his shoulders as he limped away.

For once, his brother listened.

\--

It was night, and a layer of frost glazed over the sand in the midst of the wintery desert. Hanzo sat at his fire with his metal legs drawn close to his chest, watching the flames lick at the metal pie tin as he waited for his dinner to boil. Jesse had quieted for the night -- the wolf did not sleep, but instead settled down flat against the floor of his cell to stare at the gate until the first signs of morning. Hanzo had poured the last of his funds into purchasing a small battery-powered space heater for the kennel, making it habitable even through the moonless subzero nights this cruel desert consistently had. But the archer longed for Jesse to be here next to him by the fire, pressed to his side and filling the silence with another onslaught of stories from his heyday, how he had made it out of yet another life-or-death situation by the skin of his teeth and a flick of his gun. Then the two would retire for the night side by side, remaining warm even after the fire had extinguished, comfortably wrapped in the serape and in each other’s arms.

But as of now, McCree was unwell, and Hanzo was forced to face the brunt of the winter evening alone.

The archer’s attention was roused when a gust of wind toppled over a section of his supplies off to his left. With an annoyed grunt, the man rose and begrudgingly went to fix it. On the edge of the firelight, he crouched down and began stuffing whatever he wrapped his fingers around first into the closest suitcase or paper bag. His hand eventually brushed across a familiar worn leather, and suddenly Hanzo found himself with Jesse’s hat. He stared down at it, unconsciously dragging a thumb across the brim. The golden badge winked back at him in the gentle glow of the fire, the eagle engraving proudly spreading its wings at its center. He counted the bullets lining the hat band and noted the caliber, musing if McCree had ever had to pull one out of his little headdress and use it. The archer gave a faint smirk at the mental image, but it was quickly replaced again by the morose mask he so often wore.

Next to where Hanzo had found the hat was Jesse’s duffel bag. It had been toppled onto its side by other things falling on top of it, and some of the man’s belongings had tumbled into the dirt. Out of deference, the archer had refrained from touching McCree’s belongings besides grabbing him a spare change of clothing. He placed the hat atop his own head and set the bag upright, intending to replace the items that had fallen out without even sparing them a glance. That did not last long, however; Hanzo suddenly found himself sitting back at the fire with the duffel bag next to him, rummaging through it desperately. Maybe something in here would help Jesse in some way?

Hanzo found a grey tri-fold wallet and gently brought it into his lap, as if worried the dusty leather would fall apart on him if he were not careful. His eyes lingered on it for another moment, fingers running along the fraying seams before he swallowed his nerves and flipped it open. Instantly a long flap lined with 3x5-inch polaroids tumbled out. Each had been faded slightly, the colors washed together by both water damage and the hands of time, but the faces of the people they contained were still distinguishable.

The first had Jesse somewhere around his early twenties, and Hanzo was immediately struck by how different this McCree looked when compared to the current one. His beard had been only a scruffy goatee back then, and his build was much more bony, angles sharp and muscles having yet to develop. He posed, simultaneously tipping his hat and flipping off the cameraman with wild eyes and a cocky grin. Beside him was a tall man in a beanie and black tactical gear. It took a moment, but the archer recognized the man from multiple newsreels throughout the years: Gabriel Reyes, original Omnic Crisis Strike Team commander and former head of Overwatch’s covert ops unit. In the photo, Reyes has his arms crossed as he side-eyes his subordinate, but he cannot hide his small amused smirk from the camera. The photo below the first duo contained another pair. There is an older woman, her long black hair beginning to turn grey and a Horus tattoo painting the underside of her eye. Next to her is a woman in her early twenties that looks to be her daughter, beaming with pride and holding up what looks like a military Medal of Honor. The mother wears a gentle grin, but her wrinkles highlight the worry hidden deep in her eyes as she glances at the golden badge her daughter carries. Hanzo cannot help but briefly reflect on his own father for a moment, but quickly moved on to examine the remaining photographs.

The third had McCree again, older, now with short-cropped hair and in tactical gear of his own. He had his left arm wrapped around what appeared to be an Omnic. The Omnic held three shurikens between his metal fingers as his visor flashed red, the image made a tad less threatening with the addition of a black stetson atop its head. Hanzo noticed the Deadlock tattoo on the inside of Jesse’s forearm and forced himself to move on, pushing down the anger threatening to bubble up out of his chest as he remembered Clarence and the rest of his worthless pack. The final photograph at the bottom of the flap was a group shot of a large crowd of people. In the background, the archer could make out a banner reading “HAPPY 45TH”. The group included the people from the previous photos as well as a large variety of others. Everyone was smiling. Jesse was among them, playfully sucking at the straw of a milkshake. In the center of it all was unmistakably Jack Morrison, Overwatch's infamous Strike Commander. His smile had the twist of a smirk to it, and a bright pink party hat contrasted the sky-blue of the rest of his uniform.

Snapshots of McCree’s life. Hanzo meticulously observed Jesse in his younger years, how happy he looked. Then he noticed the wolf-like fangs in his photo with Reyes, and suddenly the archer was disinterested in the photographs. He folded that compartment of the wallet shut and moved on to the rest of it. Hidden in the various flaps, he found a variety of fake IDs. He listed off the names in his head: Joel Morricone, Robbie J. MacCready, Matthew Mercer, Miguel Reyes, Jr. -- each one punctuated with a another grinning photo of Jesse off to the side. Besides the IDs, the wallet contained a handful of business cards. All but one had been rendered completely illegible by age. It was for someone named Doctor Ziegler, and the unmistakable Overwatch logo rested at the top right-hand corner of the crumpled card. Someone, presumably Jesse, had scrawled the name “Angie” on the back of it. For a moment, Hanzo felt a surge of hope, but upon closer inspection, he found that the phone number had been messily scribbled out by a jagged black pen. His heart fell, and Hanzo continued his search. The wallet contained nothing else of particular interest, save for some newer-looking condoms hidden in the deeper pockets. Hanzo replaced the items back into their respective places and placed the wallet off to the side. He left what little money he had found exactly where it was.

Jesse’s duffel bag produced a few other items of interest. There were some practical things: a composite atlas, a gun kit for Peacekeeper, spare ammo, a (broken) compass, and an advanced-looking screwdriver that Hanzo could only assume was for upkeep of Jesse’s mechanical arm. There was a deck of faded playing cards with a few extra Aces tucked in the back, and another unopened bag of the bacon-flavored dog biscuits that McCree was so fond of. What intrigued the archer the most was a small red pocketbook tucked off to the side. Upon flipping through it, he found that it was filled with numerous names written in blocky lettering, a dollar value displayed next to each. A good percentage of the names had been slashed off the list with red pen. At the very end of the list, one name was circled: _Jesse McCree - $60,000,000+_. It was by far the highest bounty on the roster. A cheeky smiley face and a pistol that resembled Peacekeeper had been doodled next to the circle.

Finally, Hanzo found Jesse’s phone. It had been hidden at the very bottom of his duffel bag under a pile of the man’s shirts. The screen had been cracked slightly at the upper right corner, but the fracture was minor enough to not obscure the rest of the display. The phone itself was a few models outdated, but it still seemed to be working. He doubted a signal would reach out to the bottom of a ravine in the middle of nowhere, but he pressed the power button and removed the phone from sleep mode to check nonetheless. The lock screen displayed the date, time, and a battery charge careening dangerously into the red. But none of those things were what kept Hanzo fixated on the small screen. Instead, he was staring at a photograph of himself. It had been when they were in Vegas in the weeks prior: he was on the balcony of the restaurant of _The Cat’s Cradle_ hotel with his back towards the camera, the golden ribbon twirling behind him in the breeze. Jesse had photographed him so that he was at the epicenter of the many lights of the Vegas Strip, the distant sparkles of neon surrounding him like colorful stars on a dark backdrop. 

Hanzo stared at the image on the lock screen until the phone battery finally gave out on him. Afterwards, he carefully replaced McCree’s belongings exactly how he had found them. The archer ate a lukewarm meal for dinner and retired to his bed roll. That night, be kept the hat over his eyes and used the serape wrapped around his shoulders as a blanket. He pressed the swath of red to his nose, desperately chasing the fading scents of whiskey and hickory smoke into the recesses of his dreams.

\--

Hanzo had been having a very bad day.

The trip to town the previous night had been cold and unforgiving. The temperatures were beginning to dip threateningly close to zero, and his winter clothes could only protect him from the chill for so long. When he finally made it into town, he found that he had arrived late, and half of his usual late-night stores had already closed. He trekked back to camp with very little of what he needed, only to find some carrion birds ripping into his food stores upon his return. They had been thorough in their hunger, and after chasing the flying pests off, the archer found that they left only a few scraps for him and his ill companion. Hanzo would have to forego some much-needed sleep and face the freezing desert _again_ the following evening in order to make up for it.

Jesse was not making things any better. He had been skimped on his breakfast, so he proved to be extra rowdy when Hanzo attempted to deal with him. The archer was knelt down next to the wolf, feeling his own hunger beginning to gnaw at his stomach and make him irritable. In one hand, he held a dog biscuit that he had found in the other man’s belongings. McCree growled and half-barked at the archer’s offering, face scrunched up and ears attempting to fold back in distaste.

“Jesse, if you’re hungry, _eat_. These are all I have. You’re supposed to love these.” The archer forcefully shoved the treat closer to McCree’s mouth, only to have his hand smacked away by a heavy metal paw. The rejected biscuit went flying a few good feet before it collided with the hard container wall. Hanzo felt a rush of frustration swell in his chest. His nostrils flared as if he had taken the act as a personal offense.

“Fine! Go ahead and starve for all I care.” The archer bolted upright and began to storm away, only to feel a sudden pull backwards that nearly dragged him onto his ass. Jesse’s snarl was muffled by the end of the tattered serape in his mouth, squaring his shoulders and pulling with a great amount of effort. Hanzo awkwardly turned around and tugged right back, fingers seizing large folds of the red fabric in an attempt to free himself.

“Jesse, no! Let go!” Hanzo paused and placed his foot against the wolf’s shoulder for more leverage, leaning all of his weight backwards in an attempt to free the serape from Jesse’s jaws. McCree held on fiercely, golden eyes wild and defiant. They were locked in an aggressive game of tug-o-war, neither side showing any intention of yielding anytime soon. The archer yanked one last time before he heard a loud tearing sound cut through the stale air. He clumsily tumbled back and landed on his shoulder, no longer anchored by an opposing force to pull against.

Hanzo sat up and looked down at the small cut of red cloth no bigger than a handkerchief that he had managed to secure. The serape had torn clean through, severing close to its base around the archer’s shoulders. Jesse had won the rest of the serape, and at once he dug his claws into it with a vehement snarl, ripping and thrashing and slashing at the fabric until it was reduced to mere shreds in seconds. Hanzo stood up again and left the kennel, slamming the heavy gate behind him as he made his exit. Once outside, he immediately fell to his knees, fists twisting the red scrap of the serape into a tight coil as he leaned his head down into his hands again. For the first time since the incident, Hanzo allowed himself to cry. It was an ugly, messy cry; the man’s shoulders trembled with loud hiccups and sobs as tears freely flowed down his cheeks in great streams, staining the serape a darker hue of reddish-brown. Months of bottled emotion erupting at once, and Hanzo felt it all, a heavy weight pressing down to smother his heart.

“Genji, please, help me. I don’t know what to do.” The archer begged the ghost of his past to appear, to chide him for his foolishness before offering a friendly hand and kind words to calm him. “ _Please_. I can’t _do_ this, I don’t know what to do…”

His brother did not answer. A fresh wave of hurt washed over the archer, more tears beginning to fall. He remained there, lost and alone, for a long while, clutching the small scrap of serape to his chest and refusing to let go.

\--

The sounds of fireworks in the distance alerted Hanzo that the new year had finally dawned. His leg had fully healed in the months since the encounter with Deadlock, and at last his pitiful limp had left him. McCree no longer needed bandages as well, but his persistent thrashing had upset the wound enough times to mar his skin with a new pale scar across his torso. The nights grew colder as they made their way through January, but little about the junkyard changed as time ticked on by. Hanzo had long since formed a routine, a routine so repetitive and tedious and absolutely draining that it often left the archer with a chronic headache. He kept his shred of the serape tied around his wrist, though it had long since lost the scent of smoke that reminded him so much of cowboy he dearly missed. By this point, he did not care; its presence on his forearm underneath his sleeve was comfort enough.

The new year brought with it a series of rainstorms. They blended in with one another as the first weeks of the new year progressed, and it had been some time since the archer had last seen the morning sun. Hanzo squatted miserably in the downpour, a improvised lean-to not doing much to protect him from the storm. A few empty bottles of alcohol were half-buried in the mud next to him, and their former contents were beginning to affect his judgement. Peacekeeper dangled loosely in his gloved fingers, the gun clunky and unfamiliar in his grip. Hanzo’s mind wandered as he watched the swell of rain pelt the earth and flood his camp, anxiously spinning the revolver’s barrel and listening as the mechanical parts clicked one by one.

Hanzo stood, letting the rain fully wash over him as he made his way through the scrapyard. McCree was sprawled out on his back when the archer entered the kennel, but he rolled defensively into a crouch when he realized that he was no longer alone. The small space heater kept the shipping container dry and comfortable, but that was not why Hanzo had come to the wolf’s den at this hour. Rainwater fell away from him in sheets as he approached Jesse, studying the golden eyes for any sign of recognition. When he found none, he clicked off Peacekeeper’s safety and pointed it towards the wolf’s head.

Hanzo had been thinking over his plan for a long time now. While it seemed cruel to use a man’s own gun against him, he eventually deemed it a quicker and kinder death than that of a knife or an arrow. Jesse snarled as the barrel of Peacekeeper bore down on him, prepared to pounce if Hanzo moved any closer. He had mulled over McCree’s words from his room in the inn about a thousand times now: feral Deadlock members had to be put down. It was for their own good. There was no cure.

He had tried. He had tried so, _so_ hard to prove Jesse wrong, to fight and stall and bargain all in hopes that McCree would snap out of it if given enough time. But months had passed, and the golden eyes were still there, desperate to tear him apart with tooth and claw, no capacity for love, no humanity. It was killing him, it was killing _both_ of them, and Hanzo could not bear to see Jesse suffer anymore.

The wolf’s growling had subsided, but it continued to study Hanzo’s movements with scrutiny. Hanzo swallowed hard and took in a breath in an attempt to steady his aim. His finger tensed against the trigger of Peacekeeper, remembering all the smiling faces of the people in McCree’s photographs, the long nights in their shared motel rooms, their last hurrah in Vegas, how they had woken up in each other’s embrace.

Instead of the wolf, Hanzo suddenly saw a cowering green dragon.

Peacekeeper clattered to the ground, and the archer followed soon after, folding in on himself again as he collapsed to his knees. Angry hands reached up and pulled at soaking wet strands of hair, disheveling his topknot as fingers clawed against his scalp. A frustrated scream tore through his chest and crescendoed, reverberating around the cramped walls of the kennel until he abruptly cut it short.

He couldn’t do it. He had grown soft.

Jesse had not moved from his defensive crouch. The wolf watched as Hanzo slowly sat upright again, letting his greying hair tumble out from his topknot and settle on his shoulders. The archer avoided eye contact, but felt the burn of the golden stare nonetheless. A hand reached up to wipe away a trail of tears; he was crying again.

“Jesse. I am so sorry.” The archer’s words were quiet, barely audible over the gentle sound of the rain from outside. The wolf gave a warning growl when Hanzo reached his arms forward, but he followed through with the action, cupping each side of McCree’s face and caressing a thumb over the rugged leather of his cheek. “I am sorry this ever happened to you, that I helped turn you into this. You gave your life to protect me, and I’ve been unable to offer anything in return. You’re hurting, you shouldn’t have to exist like this, yet I cannot even bring myself to end your torment. I am sorry.”

Hanzo’s voice began to tremble as more and more words began to trickle past his lips, a waterfall of emotions finally allowed to flow forth. Gently, he pulled the hesitant wolf further into his embrace, ignoring for a moment how Jesse tried to dig his sharp teeth into the shoulder padding of his jacket.

“And I’m sorry that I was so _cold_ to you, so distant, in the time we have known each other. I was rude, I was resentful, and I should not have treated you so poorly. I am not _worth_ your forgiveness, I do not deserve to find happiness after all the atrocities I have committed, but… Jesse, if you can hear me, know that I am so, so truly sorry. You deserved so much better than any of this. I _loved_ you. I still love you…and I miss you. So much.”

The last words were barely above a whisper as Hanzo buried his face into the wolf’s shoulder, fingers curling to grasp at the fabric of his shirt as he choked out a last few muffled sobs. The confession had slipped past his lips before he could stop it, though perhaps it was that he did not want to stop it. It was true: he loved this man. He had loved Jesse for a while now, he had just been too afraid to admit it, even to himself. And now, when he had finally found it within himself to confess his feelings, he was not sure if this man, this handsome, kind, courageous man that he had grown so fond of, even retained enough capacity to fully recognize him.

Hanzo heard Jesse’s soft growling suddenly stop short beside him. A moment later, the archer felt the wolf press his nose further into the nape of his neck, feeling warm exhales of breath as McCree curiously sniffed at his hair. When Hanzo attempted to move away, Jesse responded with another growl, snapping his jaws at the air in warning. Hanzo remained where he was, letting the wolf continue his examination, metal claw pawing at the other man’s shirt as he continued to take in his rain-muddled scent. Once satisfied, the wolf positioned himself and plopped down into Hanzo’s lap, arms dangling awkwardly out in front of him as he tried to fit as much of his torso in place as possible. He let out a contented sigh as he settled into his new spot, the bloodshot yellow eyes relaxing as he lay sprawled out across Hanzo’s legs.

Hanzo stared down in silence for a moment, then gently reached up a hand to slowly ruffle McCree’s messy hair. New tears had begun to silently run down his cheeks as he continued to pet the top of the wolf’s head, the edges of his mouth curling up into the faintest of smiles. There were no sounds between them except the soft pitter-patter of outside storm. The two remained together like that until the early morning, when the storm clouds cleared and the sun rose up against the foggy horizon.

\--

The next few days were difficult, but doable.

While Jesse had learned to relax while in the archer’s presence, Hanzo found that he still did not like being touched without explicit permission. He had tried to fix the collar around the other man’s neck, only to have sharp fangs snap in the direction of his fingers. He pulled back and let Jesse have some space, but when the collar continued to bother him, he eventually flopped onto his side and allowed Hanzo to finish adjusting it.

McCree retained his wolfish appetite, still turning up his nose at anything that wasn’t a fresh cut of meat. However, Hanzo noticed that he had slowed down during his meals now, taking time to chew instead of just swallowing down large chunks in an instant. The archer started eating his meals in the kennel alongside Jesse, the two coexisting with a comfortable silence settled between them. Every so often, McCree would catch the scent of some junkyard rodent scampering past the shipping container and go wild again, pulling against his chain and howling up a storm. And as always, Hanzo would come and comfort him, talking him down bit by bit until Jesse rested with his head in the other man’s lap, whimpering in annoyance about how his prey had slipped away.

One morning, Hanzo arrived with their usual breakfast, and found Jesse hunched over in the back of the kennel, chewing mindlessly on the rusty chain that kept him shackled to the wall; a behavior that was startlingly new. The archer cautiously approached and knelt down beside McCree, slowly reaching to try and pull it away from him.

“Jesse, no. You will ruin your teeth.” Hanzo grabbed a hold of the chain, only for Jesse to jerk suddenly and yank it back. The archer watched as the wolf returned to gnawing at the chain, every so often throwing his full weight back and pulling, straining the corroded metal of the latch welded onto the wall. He had been at this for a while.

“Do you want out?” Hanzo asked, though he was not expecting an answer. Jesse rolled back and tugged at the chain again, giving the archer a glimpse at how the collar had begun to chafe his neck. Guilt simmered at the bottom of his stomach, and slowly Hanzo reached a hand over towards McCree.

Jesse tensed when he felt the calloused hands brush up against his neck. He let out another of his usual warning growls, but otherwise allowed the archer to proceed. Carefully, Hanzo lifted the latch of the steel collar before slowly prying it open. Once it had enough room, he let the heavy collar drop to the floor with a dull thud. Jesse pawed at it with his metal arm for a moment, then bitterly smacked it away, glad to be done with it. The wolf stalked towards Hanzo, wild eyes staring him down, and for a moment, the archer froze. The image of teeth and claws ran rampant in his mind as he began to regret his decision to let the other man loose. But his fear was soon quelled when Jesse pressed his forehead up against Hanzo’s chest, nuzzling into the archer’s shirt with a soft whine.

“...Haaank…ss...Th-...Thaaaaank…”

The words were strained, the awkwardly-sized teeth along the left half of his face inhibiting how well he could maneuver his jaw. Jesse’s honeyed drawl was jumbled in somewhere alongside a high-pitched whimper. He repeated the word a few times, never quite able to get it out fully, but his message could not have been any clearer. He kept his face nestled deep into the folds of the shirt’s fabric, repeating the word over and over until his voice inevitably devolved back into primitive whines. Slowly, Hanzo pulled the other man into a hug, soothingly running his fingers through Jesse’s greasy mop of chestnut hair.

“You’re welcome, Jesse.”

\--

It was a windy February evening, and Jesse was beginning to show a rapid development with his speech. McCree was sprawled out on his back, waiting patiently as Hanzo flipped through the wallet. The man soon found the flap of photographs from before and unfurled it across his lap. He gave the snapshots another once-over before letting Jesse examine them. The archer pointed with his thumb to the first photograph with Reyes.

“This young man here, with the brown hair. Do you know who he is?”

“Meee…Jesseeeee…”

“Good. And what about the man next to you?”

Hanzo watched McCree squint his yellow eyes in concentration, examining the photograph while remaining on his back. To him, it probably looked upside-down. After a moment, Jesse was able to come up with a name.

“G...Gabiiii… _jefe_ …”

Hanzo showed him the picture of the two women and waited to see if Jesse remembered. This time, McCree had to roll right-side up and get a better look at them before he gave a response.

“Ama...Amariiisss. Ma ‘n’ sis.”

They went on like this down the row of photographs, seeing who or what Jesse could remember. He was able to place a few names to faces -- “Jackie”, “Gab”, “Angie”, “Ana”, and “Gen” were the easiest for him among the group shot, though after a moment, he was able to point out a “Rein” and a “Trace” among them as well. McCree also seemed able to recall a smaller man with a beard in the photograph, but the name was still too difficult for him to say in his current state.

Eventually, Hanzo placed the wallet off to the side before pointing a finger towards himself.

“Now, who am I? Do you know who I am?”

“F...Friennnd...friend.”

“But my name. Do you know my name?”

“...D-Dragon...friend?”

Hanzo’s heart fell. Jesse let out a pitiful whimper and buried his face into his hands, obviously ashamed of himself that he was unable to remember. Through the disappointment, Hanzo forced a smile, reaching over to soothingly pat the other man’s head again.

“M’sooorryyy…”

“It is alright. You have made a lot of progress today, and you should be proud of that. You will remember more in time.”

At least, that is what they both hoped.

\--

Hanzo awoke with a start, jolting upright in his bedroll instinctively. The kennel was dark; it was still sometime in the middle of the night, probably not long after he had initially dozed off. A sudden metallic noise had pulled him back from sleep, and as his senses slowly returned to him, he realized that it had been the kennel door getting slammed shut by the wind.

A second realization: Jesse was no longer in the kennel with him.

Hanzo found himself outside before his brain could catch up with his feet. He was up in a sprint in a random direction, expertly dodging and scaling loose pieces of debris as he tore through the scrapyard. Thankfully, it had been a cloudless night, and his path was well-illuminated by the glow of the full moon. He called Jesse’s name at the top of his lungs as he ran, not even attempting to hide the fear in his wavering voice. He prayed to the dragons that his companion had not strayed too far.

Not again. He refused to lose him again.

After some agonizing minutes of searching, Hanzo found him. McCree was seated atop a rock centered in the middle of a sandy clearing, the surrounding junkyard silent save for the soft chirping of nearby crickets. His legs were bent at the knees as he leaned forward on his palms, intently staring upwards. Relief hit the archer like a truck; only then did he realize how out of breath he was from his sprinting. Jesse’s ear flicked before he turned his head, watching Hanzo approach.

“Jesse, do not scare me like that! I was very worried.” Hanzo’s scolding was soft, biting back his usual impulse to yell. McCree whimpered, yellow eyes cast downward as he bowed his head as a form of apology. The archer said nothing, only letting out a heavy sigh. Effortlessly he scaled the boulder to sit beside the other man, the top just flat enough to fit the both of them.

“It’s alright. If you had wanted out, I would have taken you in the morning,” Hanzo continued. “Is there any reason you chose to now?”

In response, Jesse looked towards the sky again and pointed with his clunky steel paw to the best of his ability. Hanzo followed his gaze, and for the first time in a long while, he noticed the plethora of stars painted across the ebony-blue sky. Far-off galaxies swirled together like the currents of a stream, the isolation of the canyon allowing for maximum visibility of the picturesque starscape. The last time he had seen it this clear was in the rural mountains of Hanamura, when he was still but a child.

“Pretty stars.” McCree’s low whine stated after a moment. “Reminds home.”

Hanzo returned his attention to the man beside him, noticed how he seemed to frown past the mangled row of teeth, and could not help but smile sadly at his own nostalgia.

“I know the feeling.”

“Friend remember home?” Jesse asked. The archer hesitated a moment, leaning forward to rest his arms on his metallic knees. A series of memories fell upon him instantly, memories of Genji and their father, the blazing summer heat and the quiet winter evenings. Memories he had not permitted himself to indulge in for years, and now, the decade of neglect and blended them all together. It was hard to choose which ones were the fondest.

“A village high atop a hill. There were cherry blossoms in the spring.” He decided finally. The image was still crystal clear in his head even after all this time, how he and Genji would chase each other through the garden in the early days when they did not have responsibilities. “...I miss it dearly.”

McCree remained silent for a moment, gaze falling away from the starry display above them to stare at the dirt instead.

“No remember home,” he confessed quietly. “Very little. Pretty stars only.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Hanzo replied. “Perhaps it will return in time, alongside the rest of your memories.”

“Hanzo.” Jesse spoke the other man’s name abruptly, almost matter-of-fairly, as it returned to him. Before the archer could react, McCree leaned in and rested his head against his companion’s shoulder, keeping his eyes locked onto the ground below. “Hanzo be Jesse’s home?”

The archer processed his words, partly taken aback by them, before he looped an arm around McCree’s waist and pulled him closer. He leaned his head to the side so it rested atop Jesse’s, closing his eyes and letting himself relax in his partner’s presence.

“Of course, Jesse. A million times over.”

The pair remained seated atop the boulder in for another hour, listening as the crickets serenaded them. The full moon and her garrison of stars watched over them, preserving this moment of silent intimacy. Afterwards, they returned to camp and retired to bed, wrapped together in a shared blanket and nestled within each other’s arms.

\--

Hanzo had never expected the springtime in Oregon to be so riddled with things that set off his allergies. In hindsight, a small town amidst the wooded hills of the Pacific Northwest was probably not the best place for those attempting to avoid pollen, but for now, he had to make due. Hanzo struggled to insert the keycard to his hotel room door under the weight of the paper bags from the market, but he eventually managed to finagle the door open and enter the room. He toed the door closed behind him and set the bags down on a nearby table, pulling out a small bottle of allergy pills and popping a few into his mouth. As he began to unpack, he heard the sound of running water from the bathroom over the soft music of the room’s radio.

“Jesse, I’m back from the market,” he called over his shoulder. A few seconds later he heard the water stop, and the cowboy emerged from the bathroom, the wolf-like fangs replaced by a warm smile. He moved to give the other man a kiss on the cheek.

“Welcome back, darlin’. I was missin’ you all morning.” He spoke. Hanzo allowed himself to grin as the other man stepped away, moving towards his half of the room to sift through his belongings. The archer continued to unpack, and a few moments later, he stopped again when McCree stepped in beside him and slid him a shot glass.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked. Jesse just kept smiling as he poured himself and his partner a drink from a bottle of _Red Desert Moonshine_. Still his favorite, despite his struggles from the winter months prior.

“No occasion, just fancied for a drink. Last bottle of this stuff from down south, figured we’d might as well make it special.”

Hanzo chuckled, but clinked glasses with the other man nonetheless. “How are you feeling this morning? Any problems?”

“I’m _fine_ , darlin’. Sometimes I think you worry too much.” Jesse waved a dismissive hand as he easily downed the contents of his shotglass. The archer kept unpacking as Jesse started to ramble a bit, commenting on the weather and how Vancouver just up north was beautiful this time of year. Hanzo moved to grab the last of his market findings from the paper bag, but he stopped when he saw what was left. McCree seemed to notice his hesitance, eyeing the bag suspiciously.

“What’cha got there?”

Silently, Hanzo reached into the bag and slowly revealed a swath of bright red fabric, freshly ironed and folded into a neat little square. The archer’s thumb sheepishly fretted at one edge of the folded serape, unsure why he was unable to maintain eye contact with the man in front of him.

“A stall at the market was selling these,” he spoke after a moment. “I figured, after what happened to your old one, this one might be a suitable replacement. The pattern is not an exact match, but I feel it is relatively close to the previous one.”

Hanzo felt Jesse’s fingers brush against his own as he took the serape into his own grip. The cowboy examined it intently, flipping it over and back again a few times in his hands. After a moment, he placed the gift gently down on the table and swung his arms around the shorter man, pulling him into a warm embrace with another of his smiles.

“I absolutely adore it, darlin’. Thank ya kindly.” He softly pressed his lips to Hanzo’s temple in another kiss, then spoke again, whispering sweetly into his partner’s ear. “I love you, honey. I really do.”

After a moment, the other man returned the hug, smiling into Jesse’s shoulder and relishing in the scent of hickory on his shirt. “And I love you as well, Jesse.”

The song on the radio ended, allowing for a more upbeat one to come and replace it. Hanzo moved and slid one of Jesse’s hands into his own, interlocking their fingers and letting his other hand rest on the taller man’s shoulder.

“Dance with me.” He said.

“Really? I thought you weren’t the dancin’ type, darlin'.”

“Well, you still need some work on your coordination, now that you are up and moving again.”

Jesse laughed and conceded, letting Hanzo take the lead as their bodies started moving together with the beat of the music. Kisses and giggles were shared as the two lovers spun back and forth, gliding easily across the small space of their shared hotel room. The song was short and inevitably ended, making the two men aware of a loud chirping sound that originated from Jesse’s luggage. The cowboy raised an eyebrow and moved to investigate. Hanzo watched him as he pulled out his phone, the device’s screen now displaying the bright white  Overwatch logo as it buzzed incessantly.

“Well, would ya look at that, it’s my old buddy Winston! Wonder what he’s calling about.” Jesse beamed down at the phone in his hand as it continued to chirp at him.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Hanzo asked. To his surprise, Jesse ended the call, abruptly ending the agressive ringing before tossing his phone onto the bed. He made his back way over to his companion and slipped easily into a dancing stance with him again, pressing their foreheads together as he flashed another one of his warm smiles.

“I’ll call him back later. Ol’ Winston can wait, this is more important. C’mon, I’ll lead this time.”

The two fell back into step as a new song came on the antique radio. Outside their window, the wind swept through the tall pines as a light spring shower began to drizzle. They were lovers, two damaged men finally allowed to be human near each other. Right then, there was no Deadlock and no Overwatch, no Shimadas and no responsibilities. It was only the two of them, together, with nothing to run from and nowhere to be. Jesse and Hanzo kept on dancing through song after song, noses nuzzled together as they let the music guide them for what felt like hours. Little moments of absolute bliss; there was nothing more they could ever ask for.


End file.
